


(Open Up) And Breathe

by talekayler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:24:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 84,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talekayler/pseuds/talekayler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Potter wasn't reintroduced to the wizarding world when he was eleven. When they find him, nine years later than they should have, things are much different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Character Death (not Harry or Draco), Violence
> 
> All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. Any mistakes are mine. A massive thank you to chosenfire28 for the stunning banner. ♥

  
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](http://s1045.photobucket.com/albums/b458/tkayler/?action=view&current=1sIJ3.png)   


_“Hagrid is bringing him,” Albus says serenely, but there is a touch of sadness that laces through his words._

 _“You think it_ – wise – _to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?” Minerva whispers back, not daring to break the silence that exists between them and the Muggle world like a sheet of glass. “Something like this, Albus–”_

 _“Dear Minerva,” Albus reassures her, “I would trust Hagrid with my life.” His tone brooks no room for argument, and Minerva’s lips draw together in a thin line._

 _It is not even four minutes later that a roar breaks the stillness of the air, threatening to shatter that delicate pane of glass. The pair looks skyward just in time to see the descent of a giant motorbike._

 _Hagrid climbs off the bike, carefully positioning his hands as he cradles the baby in an effort not to wake it._

 _Albus smiles at Hagrid, his eyes twinkling, reflecting a light of their own in the darkened street. “Thank you, Hagrid,” he says, reaching out to relieve Hagrid of his burden. Despite what he has told Minerva, he sounds as if a weight has been taken off his chest with the giant’s arrival._

 _Minerva leans in close, peering inside the nest of blankets surrounding the babe. There’s not much to see, other than an unruly mop of black hair and a livid lightning scar on the forehead. The child stirs, its hand breaking loose of the blanket’s hold; the fingers curl around the edge of the blanket, holding tightly to the material as if it was the last link to home._

 _“He’ll have the scar forever,” Albus says, somewhat sadly. He knows that the scar is bound to cause trouble for the boy, give him nightmares and show him twisted versions of the past, present, or future. Albus cannot know exactly what the connection between the two is, not until he is able to talk to the boy properly once he is grown._

 _It is a silent walk towards the front doorstep of number four; the only sound is the great sniffling sobs from Hagrid. Minerva waves a hand for him to try and quiet, lest the Muggles are alerted._

 _Albus places the babe gently on the cold stone of the step, pausing only long enough to place a letter on top of the blanket and trace a gentle finger down the boy’s cheek in a farewell gesture._

 _“We shall meet again, Harry Potter,” he says as he straightens. His robes sweep behind him majestically, light from the moon dancing off the silver buckles on his boots. He is a sight to behold, full of a power no one could comprehend. But Albus knows that what he has is nothing compared to the small boy, just barely past a year old._

 _Minerva slinks away in the form of a cat, her tail flicking as the wind begins to pick up; Hagrid rises into the sky once more with a roar; Albus stops at the corner of the street to gaze back at the small bundle. “Until then,” he says into the wind. With a snap of his robes, he is gone as well._

 _The air currents shift, dancing and remaking themselves as they swirl into a powerful gale. At the eye of this storm is number four, and more specifically, the wrapped bundle on the doorstep. His hair stays unruffled; he gives a small yawn and shifts in the blankets with a crinkle of paper._

 _The air around him is warm, a dim red glow encasing the small form and running caressing tendrils through his hair. It will protect him as best it can, sheltering him from those wishing to do him harm, from those who want to use him for personal gain, and even from itself._

 _It is not long after when Mrs Petunia Dursley opens the front door and finds him._

 _And it is not long after that when number four, Privet Drive, is waiting for new occupants._

* * *

Albus paces the headmaster’s office anxiously, his robes swishing about his ankles as he turns at each far end. The eyes of headmasters and mistresses past watch him, some just as worried as he, and others who try to look unconcerned.

On the twelfth turn about his office, Albus returns to the desk and glances down at the ancient book open on the surface, the book that holds the names of magical children. Minerva stands just off to the side, her face white and her lips thin.

It has been almost ten years since they had left Harry on the doorstep of number four.

“You are sure, Minerva?” Albus asks in a strained tone.

“Positive, Albus. The letters are not finding their way to him, and owls are thrown off course. At first I thought it had to do with the Muggles, but–” here she shakes her head, looking as if the world has dropped out from under her feet without her permission. “I went back to check, Headmaster, just to make sure. The family–” she breaks off to clear her throat before she continues, “–the family there now is not the same as the one before.”

“And Arabella didn’t notice anything?” Albus is near frantic. How could such an important child go missing without anyone noticing? Arabella was there to make sure that Harry stayed safe, to make sure that no harm fell upon the boy as he grew.

Minerva shakes her head sadly. “No. It was as if the Dursleys were there one minute, and then the next…” She flaps a hand distractedly, as if parting a curtain. “Gone, Albus. There is no way to tell for sure where they disappeared to, or when, or even if they took Potter with them. Arabella remembers having him over as a little boy, but only recalls very vague things as the years went by. She doesn’t think she’s missed anything, which makes me think she’s been Confunded, or there’s been some sort of illusion placed around there.”

Albus refrains from raising his hands to his forehead to rub at his temples. It would not do well to show a sign of weakness, not now, when Minerva so clearly needs someone to lean on; it’s a trying time, and a bad omen.

Albus knows that there is no way anyone can be blamed for this, no one but himself. This is a special case – this is Harry Potter. Albus was the one who was supposed to keep a close eye on Harry, to make sure that he grew up safe and whole, if not in the best environment.

Perhaps Minerva was right all those years ago. Maybe Harry would have been better off in a wizarding family.

Albus feels a stray thread of hope, though; surely if Harry had been taken by Voldemort’s followers they would have heard something about it. Voldemort would have already risen if he had been able to. There’d be a sign somewhere that Harry had been taken, and so far, nothing has come out.

Albus doesn’t mention any of this to the other professor. He nods sadly, assuring her one more time as she leaves that she couldn’t possibly be at fault, before he seats himself behind his desk. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and pressing the tips of his fingers together. He rests his chin lightly on them, his eyes staring straight ahead, but not seeing anything.

It is in this pose that Severus Snape finds him.

He bursts into the office and strides up to his desk in a fury. “You said–” he begins to snarl.

“I know what it is I have told you, Severus,” Albus says sadly. “I would hate to lose you at a time like this.”

Severus stops just past the doorway as he tries to regain his breath. His fists are clenched at his sides, his chest heaving. Most likely he has run up here from the dungeons, after hearing the news of Potter-gone-missing.

“How am I to protect the boy if I do not even know where he is?” His voice is low and dangerous, but he knows that he is unable to threaten the headmaster. After all, he owes Albus more than he can hope to repay in a lifetime.

“Be at ease, Severus,” Albus says, sounding as if he has aged thirty years in one moment. “It is my belief that the boy is still safe. We would have heard otherwise if things were different.”

Severus’ lip curls. “That is only what you choose to believe,” he says.

“What else would you have me believe?” Albus asks. He lowers his hands until they are resting on the desk, folded together comfortably. “You know as well as I do that he is our only hope.”

Severus stalks forwards, holding his robes before him as he lowers himself to sit in the chair facing Albus. “The Dark Lord has been quiet for nearly ten years, and yet you still believe that he will come again?”

“I do,” Albus replies sadly. “There is no way he would not. Voldemort has done things only the most knowledgeable have figured out, and that the most intelligent have avoided.”

Severus’ brow furrows, but he knows better than to question that. He knows it is nigh impossible to glean any answers from Albus that he does not already give freely. “So what will you have me do? Go and search for the boy?”

Albus is silent for a while, thinking the proposal over. He knows he needs the Potions Master here, at Hogwarts. “No,” he says slowly. “No, I think that when it is time, we will find Harry ourselves. Magic works in mysterious ways, Severus. Until then, I need you here.”

Severus huffs out a breath and pushes a greasy strand of hair out of his face. He thinks he knows what Albus is on about, what he needs him here for, especially considering this coming year. “You suspect something will happen this year, then?”

“Most certainly,” Albus replies. “If it is any inclination, it has already begun with knowledge of Harry’s disappearance.” He refrains from saying _It can only get worse from here on out_ , but he knows that the words still ring true.

Severus knows enough not to ask anymore. He takes that as his cue to leave, abandoning the office in a swirl of black robes.

Albus is right, though. Things do become more difficult, and sometimes it is hard to see the ray of light that is fighting for that spot in the clouds to shine through. Even if the spot will be short lived.

Voldemort has plans to return, and though they are troublesome, it assures Dumbledore that Harry is still safe. Each plan Voldemort makes to fully come back is bested, but each has its cost. The school sees death over the years, dreadful accidents, things that have happened right under his nose. Some, like the young Malfoy boy, get away lucky from encounters with Voldemort. Others, like Ginny Weasley, aren’t so lucky.

Albus has promises to fulfil, so he takes Draco in, explains things to him after the brush Draco has with Voldemort in the Forest during a detention. Draco already has a somewhat close relationship with Severus, so it’s easy to encourage the boy to seek him out for help, for reassurances. It’s luck that gets him the first Horcrux, the diary, and it costs Miss Weasley her life.

There is good though, in between the bad. After capturing Pettigrew, they gain an ally in Sirius Black after finding that he has been framed. It’s a small victory, but Albus takes it.

It is in the fourth year since Harry’s disappearance where things begin to take a darker turn. There are whispers of disappearances, hints that evil is underfoot, and it is no longer uncommon to hear _You-Know-Who_ spoken in undertones. It is also in this year that Lord Voldemort returns at the loss of another student during a tournament that never should have happened.

This is the year when Albus begins to lose hope.

There has been no word of Harry, not a whisper in the wind. Albus has checked various wizarding countries, nearby towns and cities. He has gone so far as to dabble in the Muggle world, wondering if Harry Potter even knows he is a wizard. But at this stage, he supposes that no news of Harry is good news. He clings to that hope, always on the lookout and sending people to scout.

Albus decides he can no longer wait for Harry’s return to the wizarding world. He has held off destroying Voldemort’s Horcruxes for as long as he is able. He has, however, spent the years previous gathering information, finding locations. He does not know if the boy has been trained in magic or not, or even if the boy is still alive.

Because if he has died without anyone’s knowledge, then all hope has died silently as well.


	2. Encounters

It is a great surprise when Albus receives Sirius’ Patronus.

Sirius has been off tracking down the Death Eaters that have been particularly active in Muggle London, mostly those like Bellatrix Lestrange and Walden Macnair. It makes Albus nervous to have all of his Order members out of the protection of Headquarters or the school. But he knows he cannot have a tight rein on them just to keep them safe. For one, they would rebel. And a large majority of them work best when they are able to decide for themselves.

The war has not been treating them kindly. There have been many casualties during the small battles when the Death Eaters – and sometimes, Voldemort himself – chose to make their move. Albus does not know what Voldemort is doing when he is not attacking Muggles or the Order, but he can only imagine the worst-case scenario. How could he not when he knows that Voldemort is looking for Harry just as surely as Albus is? And Tom has always been one to overachieve, to see how far things can go. But he does not comprehend the dangers that magic can represent as well.

Albus is alone in his study with Fawkes, and he swipes a finger down the red and gold plumage of the bird. It is then when Sirius’ gargantuan dog bursts through the castle wall and illuminates the office with a silver pulse of light.

Albus lowers his hand and approaches the dog with bated breath, hoping it is only good news that comes to him. The dog opens its muzzle, and speaks with Sirius’ voice.

“ _I’ve found Harry, but come quickly – my dear cousin is here as well._ ”

The dog gives one last bark and dissipates, small silver sparks drifting down to fall on the carpeted office floor.

Albus straightens, hardly daring to believe what he has heard. It has been nineteen years since he has last seen the boy. Having this dangled in his face, proof that Harry is safe these years past, and after it has been so long – Albus feels as if his lost hope has been restored. And Sirius, on patrol in a Muggle sector, has succeeded at last.

As soon as he is able, he is sending his own Patronus to the Headquarters in a request for whatever Order members are there to join them. He is then Flooing to the Three Broomsticks so he can Apparate to Sirius, and hopefully, Harry.

* * *

Sirius cannot believe his eyes. He’d grown so used to being disappointed that having one of the rumours holding true is surreal.

It is like he has gone back in time to when James Potter was an adult, only the woman on his arm is not Lily. And there are subtle differences between this James Potter, and the James that Sirius knew when they were growing up.

For example, this James has a different smile, and he is a little shorter than Sirius remembers. His features are a little softer, but still chiselled enough to give him that slight edge that made him popular with the ladies. And lastly, this James has green eyes, their vibrancy unhindered by spectacles, and overflowing with life and love and experiences Sirius can only imagine. It is this last detail Sirius notices that tells him he is not looking into the past. That this is the son of James and Lily Potter.

 _Harry_.

Sirius hardly notices that Harry is walking hand in hand with a woman; his eyes are only on the godson he thought he had lost. He walks a short distance behind them in his Animagus form, trotting down the street after them. He thinks Harry has seen him out of the corner of his eye, and he catches sight of that smile once more. It is warm and friendly, and it makes Sirius think that even though he has never spoken to Harry, he knows him so well that it hardly matters.

It is when Harry and his friend round the corner that things take a drastic turn. There is a scream and a cackle that makes Sirius growl and revert to his human form, whipping out his wand as he runs after the pair.

He is just in time to see Bellatrix begin firing off curses at random, and Harry shoving the girl into an alley. She stumbles as she is pushed, catching herself on the wall of a nearby building. Bella’s next spell almost catches Harry on the ear, and in Sirius’ imagination, he can smell the singed strands. The pole that Harry is carrying drops to the ground with a clatter, the plastic singing against the stone of the walkway.

“ _Stupefy_!” Sirius roars, the jet of red light leaving his wand like a phoenix bursting into flame. Harry throws himself to the side just in time, but the spell misses Bellatrix as well. She laughs once she sees him.

“Oh, this is just perfect!” she coos. She sounds as if she wants to dance on tiptoe. “I can kill my dear cousin and capture Harry Potter for the Dark Lord at the same time!”

“You’re not getting anyone!” Sirius snarls, and throws another hex her way. She dances away, her black robes swirling about her ankles and her hair whipping around her shoulders. Her maniacal eyes light upon Harry, sprawled on the ground. He is wearing a twisted expression, like he has never seen anything like her.

It is at this point when their suspicions are solidified about Harry’s lack of magical training. It’s not as if the Dursleys would ever allow him to learn such a thing; they would not be about to let Harry know about his magical background, let alone learn it. Sirius’ heartbeat quickens, his breath short as he sends off a quick plea for help to Albus. He cannot hope to protect both Harry and the girl, not alone, and not when he is faced with Bella.

Bella takes advantage of Sirius’ distraction, choosing to fire off spell after curse at Harry, and he tries to get out of their path as best he can. Bella is obviously getting frustrated, and that is when she sees that the girl is slowly making her way out of the protection of the alley. She throws an evil smile in Harry’s direction and says, “Say goodbye, Potter.”

Sirius’ wand is just as fast as Bella’s, and he has a shield in place in front of the girl before Bella’s hex has even left her wand. The girl squeaks, and ignores Harry’s warnings to stay away. She shakes her head adamantly, and despite her looks, Sirius is reminded of Lily as she runs over to where Harry is beginning to get back to his feet.

Sirius tries to keep Bellatrix focused on him, though he is not doing a very good job. Bella is just as crafty as he remembers, firing spells off at random at Harry as the girl tries to tug him away. Harry shields her with his body, and Sirius can’t quite make out what he is saying to her.

Sirius spins to evade a jet of light, his eyes taken off the pair for only a moment. But it is that moment that changes everything.

Sirius is just in time to see the arrival of another Death Eater behind Bella. His stomach lurches and he is now frantic. The feeling grows worse when Bella fires off a curse at the couple, on the heels of the one she had just previously sent to Sirius. It is a sickly green colour, and Sirius is just in time to see it fly through the air. He knows whatever he does now would be too late. The Unforgivable is set to hit Harry in the chest.

It is at the last moment when the girl is able to get in front of Harry, as she has been trying to do from the beginning. The spell strikes her just above her breast, and she goes slack abruptly, falling to the ground like a bird shot out of the air. Harry cries out, catching her just before she touches the ground. There is the sound of Apparition, just barely heard over Bella’s cry of victory. Sirius doesn’t turn, but he prays that it is Albus, or other members of the Order.

Before Sirius is able to do more than raise his wand at Bella, Harry is already glaring at her. This only seems to intensify her pleasure, and the smile she gives back to him is almost sweet.

The air swirls about Harry, and Sirius can almost taste the magic in the air. Even though Harry has not been trained, he is still capable of using accidental magic, particularly when his emotions run high. Seeing the girl die before him, saving his life, is enough to ensure that Harry is about to lose control over the magic that he holds.

Harry shouts something, but Sirius does not see any jet of light head from him to Bella. Instead, he feels as if there is a string of pressure that joins the two. Bella raises her wand, her eyes narrowed as she begins to erect a shield. But it does no good. Her wand snaps before it is even at chest height, breaking apart so cleanly that all that is left is powder.

Her face goes white with rage, but the Death Eater behind her grasps at her shoulder as more cracks ring through the air. Sirius can see the arrival of Remus, and he notices that Remus’ eyes alight immediately on Harry where he is seated on the ground and clutching at the girl’s body.

Sirius is too late in trying to capture Bella and the other Death Eater as they clear out abruptly. He gives a small snarl before turning his entire being to his godson, looking so lost and broken on the ground.

He is the first to reach them, crouching down before Harry. “Harry,” he says. Despite meeting again for the first time since Harry was too young to remember, Sirius is giddy. He wants to hold Harry, wipe away that stray tear that has just made itself known on the boy’s cheek. But, Sirius figures, Harry must be about twenty now. He is no longer a boy.

Harry looks at him, his green eyes bright. They hold the sadness that Sirius knows must be there, but also a deep anger at the maniacal woman who had attacked them. “You were the dog,” Harry says to him, his voice soft.

Sirius places his hand softly on Harry’s where it is clutching tightly at the girl’s shoulder. “Yes, I was,” Sirius tells him. “My name is Sirius.”

He can see the corner of Harry’s mouth twitch. “The dog star.” It is this that gives the insight to Harry’s character. Sirius knows now that Harry has a sense of humour, despite dark times and in death.

It is not long until the rest of the Order joins them. Albus is the first to reach them, his long robes dragging on the ground as he kneels beside Sirius and in front of Harry. Harry looks over at him, then over their shoulders where there are more people, probably all staring at him slack-jawed. Remus hovers nearby, just behind Sirius. Harry’s grip tightens around the girl’s body, and his face closes down.

It’s almost as if Sirius’ heart does the same when he sees it.

“Harry,” Albus says. “May I call you that?”

Harry looks back at him. “I suppose,” he hedges. “But I don’t know who you are, or how you know me.”

Albus smiles a sad, kind smile and introduces himself. He looks down at the girl that Harry is still holding close to his chest. “I am sorry,” Albus says, and when he looks back at Harry, it is reflected in his eyes. “I take it she was a very close friend?”

Harry examines him for a while, before nodding slowly. “You – you could say that.” His voice is hollow, and it makes Sirius’ heart ache to hear it.

Sirius stands to give Harry some room, and turning, he sees that only a few people have come. That’s good; the smaller the number of people here, the better. Sirius considers it great luck that it is late enough that there are no stray Muggles about the empty lane.

Sirius shares a relieved look with Remus; they were particularly worried about Harry, having been close friends with James. They felt as if it were a betrayal to James when they had lost contact with Harry. Also standing awkwardly nearby are Bill Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and hovering near the back, Draco Malfoy.

He can hear Albus talking to Harry in quiet tones behind him, reassuring him and explaining things. Harry begins to sound a little frantic, his voice rising as he begins to panic. “I don’t know anything, and I don’t know what is going on!” Sirius doesn’t think he can face Harry anymore without breaking down with him. To meet again under these circumstances is very trying.

“Harry,” Albus says smoothly, and it is the tone of voice that makes Sirius angry enough to want to punch something. It is clear to Sirius that Harry wants to be left alone right now, sounding as tortured as he does. Clearly, he wants the time to himself to grieve, not to be coddled by strange men and be gaped at like he is now. Sirius glares at Malfoy as he cranes his neck. Malfoy catches sight of his snarl, and he sneers back. But he does come down from the tips of his toes and shuffles off to the side so his view of Harry is blocked by Bill.

Albus continues, and Sirius is happy with what he proposes, though a little disgruntled. “Perhaps it would be best for you to head to your place of residence? There is no doubt that you are in great need of time for yourself, after such a traumatic event. Familiar surroundings will do you some good, I think. I do not think that anything explained to you now will help. If you like, we can take care of everything here.” Sirius keeps his eyes focused on the headmaster as he bows his head. “What was her name?”

“Maria,” Harry chokes out. “Maria Houst.”

Albus murmurs his condolences, and removes her body from Harry. Harry’s grip is broken, and he looks as if his heart is being taken away from him as well. He swallows before raising his eyes, darting a quick look over to where Sirius is standing awkwardly with Remus.

The street is in bad condition, strewn with debris from spellfire and rubble. Sirius kicks at a small rock that had been broken loose of its place from the cobbled street before he waves his wand and sends it back to where it belongs. The others begin to make the street and its neighbouring buildings look like new, or as close to. Sirius is still able to hear Albus though.

“I’d like to take the time to explain everything to you, Harry. There is much for you to know, but it has waited this long – one or two days more will make little difference.” He lays the body down gently, smoothing a hand over the girl’s hair where it rests against the stone. Harry watches the hand closely, before he accepts the headmaster’s hand to stand, though he looks a little hesitant. His legs are trembling, and the poor boy looks like a drenched dog.

All the happiness Sirius felt over finally finding Harry has long since evaporated, leaving him feeling worn and weary. Harry shuffles off down the street with Albus’ reassurances that everything will be handled, and that Harry will be kept safe; he will not be attacked any more. Harry darts a last look down to the ground where the girl – Maria – lays, before he turns the corner.

Then he is gone.

“Draco,” Albus says, turning abruptly. The blond boy straightens from his hunched position over a rubbish bin and looks over at Albus. “I want you to follow Harry, make sure he gets home safe, and stay there to make sure Voldemort does not find him.”

Malfoy scowls. “Why am I charged with babysitting?” he whines.

Sirius snarls at him. “If you don’t want to do it, there are some of us who will!” He gestures to himself and Remus, who is contemplating the girl on the ground sadly. Malfoy grumbles, but stalks off down the street in the same direction as Harry without another word. Sirius suspects that Malfoy is only doing so for the theatrics. Though he was quiet about it, Sirius knows – through a very reliable source – that Malfoy has always harboured a quiet obsession for the mysterious Harry Potter.

“Why send him away, Albus?” Remus asks.

“I believe he needs a small bit of normalcy before things begin to turn completely around. Help him take it all in slowly and give him time to adjust.”

Albus sighs. He waves his wand and Summons the pole that had been dropped before. It is white with a red tip, and a small strap dangles at the other end. Sirius vaguely remembers it from before. Albus casts a last look downwards and sighs sadly. “She must have been blind,” he says.

Sirius turns away from the death, preferring to let Albus handle it and refer it to the Muggle police.

* * *

Draco is only furious at being told to do something. He knows that everyone else knows that the mystery surrounding the Boy Who Lived has always fascinated him, that he has always wanted to get a chance to talk to him. After all, his father was a Death Eater, Draco thinks sourly. Who knows how much Lucius could have done to Potter or his family? He wants to have the chance to make it up to him, repair any damage his father had done, not only in the eye of the public, but also in Harry Potter’s eyes should he find that Lucius did have something to do with his parents’ murder.

He can see Potter’s back as he follows behind him. There is a slump to it, making him look sad and dejected, which, Draco figures, is true if he considers how Potter reacted to the girl’s death. Sad, to lose a loved one like that so abruptly.

He follows Potter to a large building that has several lights shining down to the street from its many windows. He sneaks inside after Potter, catching the glass front door before it latches, and is just in time to see Potter get inside the shiny metal box as the doors close. Draco watches the numbers as they rise, watches them until they stop on the number seven. _Fitting_ , Draco thinks. _A wizard living in a Muggle apartment building on the seventh floor_. Everyone knows that seven is one of the most powerful magical numbers.

Draco heads back outside and reaches into his pocket. He has taken to carrying a shrunken version of a broom around with him. He’s not about to shrink his actual broom – it would ruin the spells placed on it – so the investment in one that he can easily shrink is a good idea on his part. He’s not about to go around on missions for the Order without an additional means of escape. He learned that the hard way.

Draco ducks into the shadowed park to the left of the building and enlarges the broom. He straddles it, thankful that the sun has already fallen, and casts a Disillusionment charm over himself and the broom, just in case.

The broom is slightly unsteady as it rises into the air. It always is when Draco first takes it out, and neither is it the fastest of brooms. But it does its job well enough. Draco counts the windows as he rises into the air, stopping when he reaches the seventh floor. He circles the building until he spots Potter moving slowly though his apartment. Draco’s grip around the handle tightens as he guides his broom slowly over to the window, alighting softly on the balcony.

He watches as Potter throws his jacket down on the couch, before it slips off and lands on the floor in a heap. While he watches the garment crumple up on the floor, Draco notices that it is looking a little grubby. There is a small tear in the shoulder, and the hem is stained from where Potter had obviously been rolling around on the ground. It looks old and worn, and once Draco takes a good look around the rest of Potter’s place from his vantage on the balcony, he notices that it fits right in.

The place is pretty sparse. Aside from the couch, there is a lone barstool in front of a counter. Draco can just see the edge of a bed from beside the balcony window, and a desk sits in the far corner of the room, littered with crumpled bits of paper and Muggle writing devices. Sitting in the middle of the desk, partially covered by the debris, sits a book that must have been quite thin at one point. It now looks as if it is fit to burst, small bits of paper sticking out at every corner. The only thing keeping it closed is a mug that Potter must have placed on it. Draco snorts.

Other than that, the place looks empty. There is nothing on the floor except for the lone jacket that Potter has just ripped off. There is no telly that Muggles seem so obsessed with, no radio or any of those other box-like things Muggles enjoy. There is the couch, bed and desk, all shoved against the walls and leaving the middle of the room clear.

Draco leans against the rail of the balcony and pulls out his wand to shrink his broom. He tucks it away carefully, making sure none of the bristles get caught on his robes. Even if it’s a cheap broom, it does well to take care of it.

Being given the duty of watching someone is quite boring. Draco heaves a quiet sigh after discovering that all Potter looks inclined to do is sit on his bed with his head in his hands. And all right, Draco can give him the excuse of what a traumatic experience it is to have what must have been a very close friend or girlfriend die in front of him. And just the sight of the man before him as he sits on the bed is enough to make Draco’s heart ache. It’s almost as if he can feel the guilt that Potter is piling on himself.

He has no idea how long Potter sits there. Draco has long since started to examine the sky, looking up at the constellations as they appear in the night. He mumbles their names under his breath; Centaurus, the Centaur; Hydra, the water snake; Pyxis, the compass. It’s something he’s done since childhood, ever since his father took him out on a clear night long ago and said, _See, Draco, that one there? That’s_ your _star_.

Draco had liked that feeling, owning a cluster of stars so that when people looked up at the night sky, they would think of him. And even now, when Draco is older and knows that it is just what he’s named after, it still sends a little thrill down his spine. There is _meaning_ behind his name.

Draco turns back just in time to see Potter pull the covers of the bed back and climb in between them. Draco can’t see his face, but he watches as Potter falls into a fitful slumber.

Draco is just able to make out the dim outline of Potter’s face, aided by the Muggle street lights below and the full moon at his back. He is struck by the memories and the fantasies he had as a boy at the prospect of being able to meet Potter. He had always harboured a fascination with the legend of The Boy Who Lived and He Who Must Not Be Named, even though his father never particularly liked to tell it.

They come back to him now, as he watches Potter sleep. He tries to imagine what Potter would have looked like younger, his face less chiseled and a little softer, rounder. He tries to imagine what it would have been like if they had met on the train to Hogwarts, shared a compartment, maybe. Or perhaps they had met in Diagon Alley first, and Draco was able to show him all the spectacular shops. Maybe – _maybe_ – they could have been Sorted into the same house, shared a dormitory even.

Draco’s thoughts are broken when Potter shoots out of bed. He looks as if his heart is racing, his breath coming in short bursts. Draco shifts so that he is partially hidden from view, forgetting that he has already been Disillusioned. He watches as Potter sits back down onto the bed with a thump, his head going straight back into his hands, and Draco has to fight off a sigh at the repetitiveness of it all. He most likely had a dream about his girl.

It’s not long before Potter is standing up, wobbling slightly, and making his way across the room to the desk. He grasps the back of the chair there, pulls it out and plops down onto it. The cup is removed, and it appears as if the journal grows three sizes. Idly, Draco wonders what Potter has stored in there.

Potter allows the journal to open up to where it will, then flips through it. He looks as if he is concentrating very hard, and Draco can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t bother to light a candle, or, knowing Muggles, switch on the lamp.

But after a while, Potter finds a writing tool among the debris scattered about the desk and begins to write. Draco imagines along with him, trying to envision what it is that Potter wants to record.

He doesn’t write for very long, pushing away from the desk abruptly, the book still spread open before him. He stands, still somewhat unsteady, and crosses the room to where the barstool is placed. He sits and holds up his hand, the palm towards the desk. Draco can just barely make out the shadow of a small object flying through the air towards Potter, landing in the middle of his hand.

Draco’s curiosity quickly turns to outrage. Obviously, Potter has been trained in magic to be able to Summon something. They’ve got it all wrong; Potter apparently wasn’t left in the Muggle world, ignorant. He must have a wand hidden up his sleeve or something, been trained well before. And to think that they had been worrying over not being able to find Potter, at leaving him defenseless and open to attack from the Death Eaters, when all along Potter has been leaving _them_ to fend for themselves.

Draco’s irritation grows. He watches as Potter throws a ball into the air, catching it smoothly despite the darkness that engulfs the room, barely lit by the moon and city lights. As soon as it has made contact with his palm, it is off again, being hurled across the room and bouncing off the opposite wall. It sails back to Potter, but just before it touches his palm, Potter erects a shield, making the ball bounce once more and heading back to the wall. And again, just before the ball makes contact, it is once more changing direction abruptly as it reflects off another shield, sailing back through the air to smack into Potter’s hand.

Potter goes through this process, ball to wall to shield to shield and back to palm. As Draco watches, he grows more and more furious. Potter is obviously strong with magic, his reflexes are quick… and this is all he’s been doing with it? Throwing objects around at walls while there has been a _war_ going on?

Draco is startled out of his increasing ire when the ball changes direction abruptly, smacking into the glass pane of the window. Draco is prevented from jumping back by the rail, and his hands go out to either side to steady himself. He glances over to where he has a white knuckled grip on it; he’s still Disillusioned. There’s no way Potter could’ve seen him.

But sure enough, Potter is standing from his seat and making his way towards the balcony. Draco debates retrieving his broom from his pocket and hovering before the balcony, but Potter is already unlatching and sliding the door open.

“You’ve been there for a while now, you must be freezing,” Potter says, seemingly to no one, but Draco knows it’s him Potter is talking to. He remains quiet though, until Potter steps back and gestures for him to enter. Draco scowls and removes the spell.

Potter smiles softly at him, somewhat sleepily as Draco steps over the threshold and into his tiny flat. Potter slides the door shut behind him, locking it with a deft movement of his finger. “What’s your name?” Potter asks.

Draco is still a little off kilter, so he answers without thinking. “Draco,” he says. “Draco Malfoy.”

He flushes once he’s realised what he’s provided so readily, strides off across the room and makes up for his slip by demanding, “How’d you see me?”

Potter is still smiling softly at him, and his response catches Draco off guard. “I saw your magic.”

Draco stops halfway across the room. He turns to Potter and raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Potter brushes past him and Draco stares at his back. “Your magic.” He turns once he’s reached the stool again, jumping up to sit on the surface. He swivels to face Draco, then waves absentmindedly at the couch, clearly offering Draco a spot to sit. Draco arches an eyebrow, but sits on the couch nonetheless. He clasps his hands together and rests them on his knees, his grey eyes searching Potter’s.

“What do you mean by that?” he asks, slightly suspiciously.

Potter frowns, and looks off to the side. “It’s… difficult to explain. No one really knows about it either, other than M–” he breaks off abruptly and clears his throat. Draco has a feeling he knows what Potter had been about to say, and he feels his stomach twist.

“Anyways,” Potter continues, his voice only slightly unsteady. “I can see your magic. It’s different for everyone, people and animals alike.”

Draco frowns and leans back in his seat, leaning into the couch and crossing his arms over his chest. “What’s it look like, then?”

Potter cocks his head and looks at Draco for a moment. “Quite bright,” he says. “Pure.”

Draco flushes a little, sitting stiffly on the couch and trying to not look uncomfortable. If there’s one thing he’s not, it’s pure. “You mean you see this ‘magic’ in Muggles too? Are you sure you’re not just seeing a life force or something?” he demands, overwhelmingly curious.

Potter shakes his head, his black hair falling into his eyes. He brushes it away with a finger and says, “No, it’s magic. It’s stronger in wizards and witches, but even Muggles have it to a small degree. They just don’t have enough of it for it to make itself known. Animals too, but theirs is more diluted, darker maybe. It’s a different kind of magic, wild. Magical items, wherever there has been large amounts of it concentrated in an area, spells, illusions – all those things.”

Draco frowns, thinking. “How is it you can see all this?” he asks slowly.

Potter gives a small, sad smile. “I’m blind.”

Draco stares at him, gaping, before asking quietly, “What?”

“Blind,” Potter says, rising a hand to brush it over his eyes. “At least, I don’t have normal vision, or the same as what you have. All I see is the magic, and most times, that’s enough. It allows me to see the people, animals, and certain objects, but I can’t see the everyday things, objects that haven’t come into contact with magic or imbibed it.”

“So how is it you can make your way around here so well?” Draco gestures over to the desk. “Write and all that?”

“Everything here holds a small amount of my own magic,” Potter says. He Summons the ball from where it still rests on the floor and walks over to hand it to Draco. “Here. Close your eyes and feel it.”

When Potter places the ball into Draco’s hand, Draco allows his fingers to curl up and around, encasing the small object in his fist. He closes his eyes and concentrates, trying to find that inner focus. It’s not long after when he feels that spark, the warmth that seems to emanate from the ball itself, the call of magic. Draco’s eyes shoot open and locate Potter, sitting next to him and staring proudly at the small portion of the ball that peeks from between Draco’s fingers.

“How did you manage that?” Draco asks as he hands the ball back over.

Potter gives a careless shrug. He takes the ball, throws it once into the air, then tosses it over to the cluttered desk.

Draco purses his lips and decides to go another route. “What did you mean by magic is different for everyone?”

Potter gives a faint smile. “You know how no two people look exactly the same? They all have different personalities and mannerisms? Magic is like that too. It depends on how a person wields it, what they choose to do or not to do with it, and the person themselves. For example, your magic is quite bright. It shimmers around and within you, whereas the magic of the–” he pauses to swallow, his expression darkening, “–the woman’s was quite dark – twisted – like serpents. It was dark purple, like a miasma.” Draco has no question over who the ‘woman’ is. He looks away, preferring to study the shadowed wall across from him.

Potter continues in a falsely cheery voice. “To a degree, magic is reflective as well. Depending on what mood the person is in, any sort of afflictions – it all has some sort of effect on their magic. It’s this that allows me to better separate people, allows me to notice their moods or expressions, by examining the melody of colours that surround them.”

“And the animals?” Draco asks, overcome by curiosity. The things Potter is talking about draw him in, the way he talks about it, as if magic has been a dear friend for so long, a comfort in hard times.

“Well, an animal’s magic differs greatly from a human’s. Obviously they don’t have quite the control we do, or they just use it differently. Instincts, for example, are a way they channel it or use it. I think that because they’re using it in a different way, it gives it a different appearance too. The base colour is more of an earthy tone.”

Draco mulls this over, trying to make sense of it all. “How did you get to be blind?”

Potter responds to this question with one of his own, “Does it matter?” and a shrug as he looks off to the side. “How does anything happen, really?” But Draco thinks there is more to it than that. He feels as if Potter is hiding something, but he knows now is not the time to ask invasive questions. Quite frankly, he’s surprised that Potter has told him this much.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he finds himself asking, and tacks on, “ _How_ do you know this?”

Potter is silent for a moment, before saying, “It’s a distraction. Takes my mind off things. Sometimes it feels good to explain things, especially to someone who can relate a little bit better than anyone else, you know? And I’ve had a while to examine it, learn things my own way. My family wasn’t particularly happy about anything I did, so I kept it quiet.”

Potter walks over to the bed and sinks down onto it with a weary sigh. Draco remains sitting on the couch, wondering what he should do now and trying to digest everything. He looks down at his hands, clasped together between his knees.

Potter breaks the silence by asking, “He sent you to watch me, didn’t he?” Draco thinks he sounds a little disgruntled.

Draco nods, gives himself a mental slap, and responds verbally, “Yes. For your protection.”

Potter raises an eyebrow at him. “You know, just because I don’t see things the same way you do doesn’t mean that I can’t still notice other things. You don’t have to limit yourself to only responding verbally. It’s possible for me to see you gesture, or nod or shake your head, by examining your magic and how it changes. I told you that.”

Draco flushes and looks away again.

“I understand if it has an impact on how you see me,” Potter says softly, and Draco can tell there’s a hint of sadness there too.

“No,” Draco says hurriedly. “It shouldn’t.” To demonstrate this, he gives Potter a brilliant smile. Potter returns it, but it looks a little shaky to Draco.

There’s an awkward silence after that for a few moments, before Draco has enough nerve to say, “You should get back to sleep. You didn’t get much of it before.”

Potter nods and moves back in the bed, swinging his legs over and settling the covers around his hips. He looks over to where Draco is beginning to stand from his place on the couch. “You might as well stay here, right? If you’re supposed to be keeping watch, and all. It’s quite cold outside; you don’t want to stay out there for too long.”

Draco hovers uncertainly before the couch. He looks Potter over nervously. “Are you–”

Potter nods towards the couch and says, “Take a kip on the couch, or feel free to transform it into something else. I’m not about to disappear overnight.”

Draco wants to say that it is very possible for that to happen, at least once the Death Eaters become aware of his exact whereabouts. They know the general area. They’ll think he’s vulnerable, and will be able to track him down much easier now.

Draco settles down on the couch, unwilling to Transfigure it into something else for the moment. He’s slept on worse things before, and Potter’s couch is quite comfortable. He listens as Potter’s breathing begins to even out and tries to match his own to it.

Just before Draco drifts off into a light slumber, he has the stray thought that this is probably the closest he’ll get to his fantasy of sharing a dormitory with Potter. And perhaps the rest of them are not so far out of reach.

* * *

Draco awakens as the first rays of light begin to stretch across Potter’s floor. It’s far earlier than Draco would care to admit, but his eyes snap open all the same, the rest of him staying still as he listens for any sound out of place. There is only the deep breathing that belongs to Potter from across the room. Draco shifts just enough to notice that Potter has had a troubled sleep. His pillow rests on the floor and the sheets are tangled about his feet. While he has tossed and turned, his shirt has ridden up a small amount, and Draco is just able to make out a line of tanned skin. He swallows, but cannot look away.

Draco takes this time to stare at Potter unabashed. His eyes travel upwards, across the smooth expanse of his stomach and chest, pausing briefly to watch it rise and fall with every breath Potter takes. His eyes trace over the column of Potter’s throat, then skip over to the strong line of his jaw. There is a faint shadow of stubble there, and Draco’s fingers twitch with the desire to touch. Potter’s lips are slightly parted, his brows dark, and his eyelids flutter slightly as he dreams. His fringe falls softly against his forehead, long enough to cover the livid line of his scar. Draco stares avidly at this for a moment, wondering about the nature of it. He knows that cursed scars – such as the one Potter has – carry a certain power of their own.

Potter shifts on the bed, his hands clenching and unclenching on the coverlet and his legs tangle themselves further in the twisted confines of the sheet. Draco sits up, intending to rouse Potter for an early morning start, when Potter gives a sharp cry. Draco is at his side faster than he can blink, stretching out a hand to shake him awake.

Potter’s eyes snap open, and he looks frantically at Draco before he is scrambling away across the other side of the bed and pressing himself to the wall. Draco retracts his hand slowly, wondering what it was that brought out that reaction.

After a moment, Potter rakes a hand through his hair, then presses it to his chest as if to tell his heart to slow. He looks critically at Draco, then takes in the rest of the room with a quick glance. “We have to leave,” Potter says, fighting to untangle himself from the sheet.

Draco stands, perplexed, and watches as Potter moves towards a closet and wrenches it open. “Why?” he asks.

“I should have a rucksack around here somewhere; get it for me, will you?” Potter says, throwing shirt after trousers down on the floor. “We have to leave because they’ll be here soon.”

Draco scans the sparse apartment to locate the sack. Once he finds it hidden in the hollow of the desk, he begins to stuff it full of the clothes Potter has littered about the floor. “Who will be here soon? And how do you know?”

Potter shakes his head. “I don’t know, exactly. I just know that they’re not anyone we want to meet anytime soon.”

Draco’s stomach plummets. He had hoped they would have more time before they were found. Potter dresses hurriedly, and Draco looks away, busying himself with waving his wand over the sack, performing lightening and shrinking charms in order to make sure everything fits.

“Thanks,” Potter says, and gently takes the bag from him. Draco hands it over and, at a loss for what to do, waves his wand over himself to remove the wrinkles from his clothes, and a cleaning charm for his teeth. He watches as Potter fills the bag with some odds and ends that rest on the desk; the odd Muggle writing implement and scraps of paper. Draco’s attention is captured by the thick book Potter has now bound with an elastic, and it slips in next to the rest of Potter’s possessions.

“What’s in there?” he asks.

Potter zips the bag closed and turns to him as he lifts it over his shoulder. He collects his jacket from where it still rests on the floor and gives it a shake. “Not now,” he says. Draco frowns at the jacket and throws a few well placed spells at it. Potter nods his thanks and slings it over his arm before heading towards the door.

“No, not that way,” Draco says, and heads over towards the balcony. “It’ll be faster if we Apparate.”

Potter hesitates with one hand on the doorknob, but he makes his way over to where Draco is opening the glass door. He steps out onto the landing and holds his hand out to Potter. Potter eyes it warily for a moment, before he slides his own in it. Draco smiles and pulls Potter closer, wrapping an arm about Potter’s waist. Potter sucks in a breath and tenses, but Draco has already turned on his heel.

Not a second too soon. Out of the corner of his eye, he witnesses the arrival of several masked forms as they appear in Potter’s quarters.

* * *

Potter stumbles when they appear in the courtyard before the headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix. Draco tightens his hold around Potter’s waist; he’s not about to let Potter fall, not on his watch.

The sun has just barely risen, the glint of gold sliding across the window panes of the row of houses before them. Potter squints at them. He points to the space between numbers eleven and thirteen and asks, “What’s there?”

Draco quirks an eyebrow at him. But of course, Potter is able to see magic. It only makes sense that he’d be able to see the location of number twelve, hidden as it is. Draco wonders if Potter would be able to get inside without being told by the Secret Keeper.

Potter turns his attention to the side, his eyes roaming over the area. He stops suddenly, his back going rigid; Draco can feel it where he still has his arm around Potter’s waist.

Before he is able to answer Potter’s question, a black form emerges out of the shadows near the building. Draco pulls Potter back and behind him, always on the alert, especially after the close call they had at Potter’s apartment building.

His wand is out and pointing at the form as it stalks towards them, but the morning sunlight drifts down and hits the black fur of Sirius’ coat, and is instantly devoured. Draco sighs his relief, his wand drooping ever so slightly before Sirius reverts to his human form and stands before them.

Sirius looks over Draco’s shoulder and gives a half smile to Potter. “You’re earlier than we thought you would be,” he says to Draco, but he never looks away from Potter. He approaches slowly, coming up to the pair as if afraid to startle Potter. His eyes take on a sad glint, and he manages to say just loudly enough for them to hear, “You look so much like your father, Harry. But for your eyes; they’re like your mother’s.”

Potter is silent behind him, and Draco is unable to interpret how this information is taken. He speaks before Potter is able to. “If we may gain entry, Black? Only, we just escaped from Death Eaters breaking into Potter’s flat.”

Sirius’ eyes widen and his face loses its natural colour, but still reflects the warmth of the rising sun. He rummages in his coat pocket as he turns and beckons them towards the front gate. Potter moves out from behind Draco and trails after him, Draco bringing up the rear. He has his wand out, glancing apprehensively at the rafters.

At the gate, Sirius thrusts a scrap of paper at Potter. Potter fumbles with it for a moment, and Draco has a small spasm of worry. What if they can’t get Potter into the headquarters? But Draco realises that he worries a little too much sometimes, as Potter looks up curiously at Sirius.

Sirius smiles his reassurance, holding the gate open for Potter and ushering him forwards. His hand hovers just above Potter’s jacket, not touching, but still providing just enough reassurance. Potter walks forwards slowly, his steps deliberate.

“Black–” Draco begins to say, and as if Potter knows what he’s about to continue with, he turns around and shakes his head ever so slightly. Sirius looks back at Draco questioningly, but Draco takes the hint from Potter and shakes his head. Sirius shrugs and bounds up the front steps to hold the door open for them.

Potter hangs back until Draco has reached him. He leans over just enough to whisper in Draco’s ear, “Please don’t tell them. I’m sure right now they don’t need to be distracted by the fact of my disability. Besides, in a magical world, it’s not that much of a disability, now is it?”

Draco has to concede he has a point, and he nods. Nevertheless, he grips Potter’s elbow tightly and pulls upwards when they get to the stairs. Potter ascends, and they are whisked into the grim building. Draco pulls the door closed behind him, the wards closing in around them securely.

Sirius is blabbering on ahead of him, talking to Harry over his shoulder as he leads him down the hallway. Potter looks around, craning his head this way and that to examine the hall, looking up the staircase as they pass it and glancing curiously at the curtained portrait.

“I suppose you didn’t have time for breakfast, then? Or much of anything else, I take it. That’s all right, I’m sure Molly’ll have made something by now, and if not, we can manage.” He then lowers his voice and continues under his breath, and even though Draco cannot clearly hear what he is saying, he suspects he knows what it must be about. It was no secret that Sirius had always loathed the house elf that took care of the house, useless as he was. Not that it particularly matters now, Draco thinks, with the elf being deceased.

Sirius pulls out a chair for Potter at the table, then bustles around the kitchen, trying to find something for them to eat. He manages to scrounge up leftovers from whatever they had the day before. With a tap of his wand, the food is piping hot again, steam curling up from the plate Sirius places in front of Potter.

Sirius sits down at the table across from Potter, intertwining his fingers. He looks at him, his grey eyes roaming over Potter’s face as Potter looks around the kitchen, frowning a little at the topmost left cupboard. Sirius has that look on his face that indicates to Draco that he’s about to delve into a long explanation; he catches Draco’s eye briefly, and it’s all Draco needs to know that he should be leaving.

So Draco manages to slink out of the room just as Sirius says, “Harry.”

He meets Lupin on the staircase as he heads up to the library. Lupin blinks in surprise at seeing him. His hand reaches out instinctively before being brought back to his side. “You’re back early,” he says. “Is everything all right?” His concern is evident in the way his brow furrows, his eyes scanning over Draco, assessing any damage for himself.

Draco shakes his head and says, “Potter is down in the kitchen with Black. No doubt you’d like a chance to talk with him as well before Dumbledore steals him away?”

Lupin gives him a small, genuine smile, and as he brushes past Draco, Draco thinks he feels Lupin squeeze his arm gently. The small measure of comfort is welcomed, not that Draco’s about to say so. He’s been feeling a little off balance lately, overcome by Potter’s sudden appearance, the knowledge of his affliction, and not to mention the hope that has been making itself known in his chest; the hope that has probably risen in everyone now, just as surely as Voldemort has begun feeling apprehensive.

The library is silent when Draco eases the door open, slipping inside and gently closing it behind him. He breathes in deeply, the musty scent of old books calming him slightly.

He doesn’t know what is about to happen, but by the looks of things, he might be the only one with knowledge of Potter’s ability. Which is good, Draco supposes, as he sits down at the desk and pillows his head in his arms. If ever Voldemort became privy to that knowledge, he’d be sure to try to use it for his own means. And if it became known that Potter was blind in the usual sense, Voldemort would use that to his advantage too.

So Draco’s not about to give more weapons over to the Dark Lord than he already has. Potter was wise to keep the knowledge quiet.

Besides, Draco will protect him.

* * *

It's hard for Sirius to wait until Harry gets to the headquarters, which is what brings him outside in his Animagus form, waiting for however long it takes them to appear, pacing back and forth in the shadows. And when they do, Sirius has a hard time staying still. He wants to run over and hug Harry until that tortured expression disappears from his face, but he knows that any overzealousness on his part probably won't be welcomed with open arms on Harry's part. After all, Sirius knows more about Harry than Harry knows about him; he'd probably be wary. So Sirius chooses to let Harry make the first move. He can wait.

Grimmauld Place is not the place he'd like to introduce Harry to the world of magic, but right now it's one of the safest places he can be. Especially when Draco had mentioned that they had come so close to getting caught by Voldemort's agents. Sirius had nearly growled when he had heard that. But he forces himself to remember that Harry is here now, safe, and under the Order's protection.

Harry takes in the kitchen with wonder, eyeing the cupboards and the papers that are still spread out on the counter. To Sirius, there's not much to see, but to Harry, this is most likely the first time he has been in a magical household. Sirius gives a faint smile and stops his hand from reaching across and gripping Harry's. He hardly notices when Malfoy slips out of the kitchen, only catching the flick of his robes as the kitchen door closes behind him.

Harry clears his throat, and Sirius can't help but notice that the poor boy seems nervous. Unsure of himself, perhaps. "You mentioned my parents before," he says hesitantly. "You knew them?"

Sirius can't hide his grin. "Yes, knew them quite well. We went to school together." His eyes gain that distant quality one gets when remembering things long since past. As Remus slides into the room, Sirius' smile widens. He's been waiting for the opportunity to tell Harry stories about his parents, he and Remus both.

Harry seems to start when Remus slides into place beside Sirius. He gives his customary warm smile to Harry, extending a rough hand to be shaken. "Remus Lupin," he says, softly. "Another good friend of your father's."

Together, Sirius and Remus fill Harry in on his parents, their school years, and then go on to talk about Hogwarts, seeing as Harry is so fascinated about it. His questions are endless – how was it created, its history, the spells and enchantments behind the ceiling of the Great Hall – he listens avidly to the stories they tell, hangs onto every word. Sirius can't help but be reminded of a bright-eyed youth learning about magic for the first time, a first year stumbling upon Hogwarts. His breakfast largely goes untouched, as he prefers to listen.

During a lull, Remus speaks up and asks, "Where have you been? We've been looking for you for several years."

"I – with my aunt and uncle," Harry says, and he sounds like he's been caught off guard. "I left them a little while back."

Sirius frowns. "Privet Drive?" he asks, and Harry shakes his head.

"Islington." His eyes remain downcast, fixed on the table. Before Sirius can ask more, he's shooting out another question, talking about things like wands and the wizarding community and how they've managed to keep it all hidden away.

Sirius feels like they've barely scraped the surface of what could be told when there is a burst of fire above the table, and a single red-gold feather drifts down. Harry reaches out and the feather falls smoothly into his hand, the fine plumes seeming to wrap around Harry's fingers in a gentle caress, as if welcoming him. "What does this mean?" he asks.

Remus rises and heads over to where the kettle rests and prepares tea with sure taps of his wand. As he does this, Sirius quickly explains to Harry, "It's the Order of the Phoenix's meeting call. This is Headquarters, and soon enough the kitchen will be filled with members." He leans forward and continues in an undertone as the first few people begin to drift in silently, throwing glances at Harry. "I'm sorry that this is all being forced on you so soon, but these are trying times. I'd have preferred to take this slower, but," he shrugs, "no one really listens to me anyway." The grin he gives after this shows that it doesn't bother him all that much.

Harry's hands slide under the table as the room begins to fill. It's obvious that the occupants of the room want to get close to him, but they're a tad uncertain; they're not sure what they're supposed to do. Malfoy, when he comes in, has no qualms. He sits down immediately at Harry's right, eyes his barely touched breakfast and says, "Eat." Harry throws him a look, and Sirius is surprised how quickly it has taken for these two to get along well enough to share a look.

There is a quiet murmur all through the kitchen that only increases as more people begin to flow in. The Order isn't as big as it used to be; most of the members are new blood, witches and wizards around Harry's age or slightly younger. Harry looks slightly out of place; his eyes dart every which way, sometimes stopping on a particular person, but with no rhyme or reason. In his Muggle clothes, he sticks out like a Quaffle in a row of Snitches.

The chatter dies down as soon as Albus sweeps into the room, his deep purple robes swishing about his ankles and trailing along after him. He looks a little surprised that Harry and Draco are here already, but he moves to the head of the table nonetheless. His piercing blue eyes roam over the table, capturing the attention of those present. There is still the occasional glance thrown towards where Harry and Malfoy sit near the other end of the table, but as Albus begins to speak, the focus stays with him.

* * *

Harry begins to feel slightly unbalanced as the room begins to fill; after all, he has next to no idea what is going on, and knows pretty much no one here. But Draco, who sits beside him, is his strong point; Harry feels at ease around him, a feeling he knows he'll need more of soon.

His mind is in a whirlwind; his thoughts batter each other until all that he's left with are the shattered remains. His trust in himself has dwindled. He's afraid that if he speaks or examines his surroundings too much, he'll lose it – it's a bit much to take in at the moment. Frankly, he is surprised he had managed to get home at all last night without tripping over something.

He had been thankful that there had been someone waiting on his balcony. It had been a distraction from the turmoil that surrounded him after seeing…. Harry doesn't want to think about it. His hands curl into fists around each other on his lap, and the voice of – Dumbledore? – washes over him.

Draco's magic is brilliant; a light blue like that of sunlight shining through ice, veined with pure white and strands of gold and holding a pulse and warmth to it that soothes Harry's frazzled nerves. He can't help but lean towards it now, seeking the comfort he knows is there. But surrounded by dozens of people he does not know constricts him. He doesn't dare show a hint of weakness around them. At a loss of what to do, he stares at the half empty plate before him, the way the magic curls around the edges.

He allows the conversation to wash over him, keeping his head down for the most part to avoid attracting attention. Even with Dumbledore speaking, he still receives the odd stare. His forehead twinges in sympathy, and he resists the urge to press a hand to it. He knows there is something odd about it; sees it in the odd reflection, can feel a faint tingle of something there when he presses a hand to it, something odd and foreign, almost slime-like in texture.

He steals the odd glance up though, examining the others from below his fringe. The light that fills the room from those present is astounding; it shimmers brighter than the lights he sees in his relatives, or those on the street. The difference, Harry thinks, is that these people are wizards. It's obviously more pronounced in them; they interact with magic more.

Across from him, Sirius' magic is playful, almost like that of a young colt and makes Harry smile. It's distinctly blue and yellow, but tainted heavily with loss and betrayal, various gradients of grey and black and red. But even with that, it makes Harry feel light-hearted. Harry can tell from this that Sirius is not one to give up easily, but neither is he one to forgive lightly.

Beside him, Remus is a puzzle. Harry remembers his magic briefly from the time in the street. Being able to examine it this closely and at greater length gives Harry a better understanding of it, though it's still confusing. It's almost as if it has two parts: a human side and an animal. The human side is light and warm, comforting in its steady beat. But the animal is raging, straining to be released, but prevented from doing so. It's almost as if it is biding its time, waiting for the correct opportunity. And Harry doesn't quite know what to think.

There are several others of interest in the room. Most show signs of hurt and loss, and a couple hold a taint that Harry knows was forced upon them, as if something had leaked through to their magic. Harry watches the twist of the taint as it briefly obscures the radiance of their own light, but it's prevented from burrowing deeper, instead settling on the surface like blackened sunning lizards.

Harry can lose himself in watching the magic weave around itself; he has on several instances. He does this now as Dumbledore talks, gestures towards him and effectively sends the attentions of many to him once more. He holds his breath and does not glance up from where he watches the magic sift through the air just above the table, hover over his forgotten plate, and twine about the small ornate candelabra on the table. There's so much magic in this old house that it allows for him to see the most he's seen in… a very long time.

Harry's not sure how quickly the time passes. He catches a few words, plans for attacks and secrecy. He watches the play of magic in the room, watching as it interacts with those closest, the shifts it undergoes. But he does notice when people begin to trickle out, some more hesitantly than others, whispering loudly behind their hands at one another. He runs his thumbnail along the edge of the table.

Beside him, Draco nudges him gently with an elbow. Harry looks up and meets the grey-veined purple of Albus Dumbledore. He gives a small smile, which Dumbledore returns as his magic brightens a little. He slides into the now unoccupied seat across from Harry and folds his hands together. "I'm surprised you two got here so soon," he says. "I trust you had no problems?"

Draco answers for him. "Not really, sir. We got out of there not a moment too soon, though."

Dumbledore makes a small noise. "Then it is good luck that you arrived here safely. There are several things I would like to discuss with you, Harry, if you feel up to it." The way he says it, though, has Harry thinking that he has little choice. If he's honest with himself, he knows that he would stay and listen anyway. He knows that there is more going on than what shows on the surface; there always is with magic.

He swallows and nods his assent. Dumbledore has a peaceful sense of magic about him, but there is the smallest trace of something that makes Harry feel nervous. Whatever it is has been haunting the elder for years now.

Dumbledore turns to Draco and says kindly, "If I could have a word with Harry in private, please?"

Draco stands and leaves his chair pushed back as he leaves the room. Harry tucks a hand under the bottom and pulls it back to the table, feeling the tingle of magic against his palm from the wood. The door closes behind Draco with a snick and Harry looks across the table at Dumbledore, who heaves a sigh. There's a wash of magic, and a charm spreads over the door.

When Dumbledore begins talking, Harry listens as avidly as he did when listening to Sirius and Remus, though the topic is much darker than long ago school days. Albus talks about the war, going on for great lengths about one Tom Riddle, later to be known as Voldemort. Most of it matches up with what he has heard already from the other two. Voldemort had murdered his parents, causing Harry to live with his aunt and uncle. At the age of eleven, Harry should have been reintroduced to the wizarding world, but he was nowhere to be found. Albus goes on to describe the next five years, Voldemort's second rise to power and the beginning of a harrowing war.

There are many blanks in Dumbledore's story. But there's the odd thing that he says that matches up with the dreams that have haunted Harry's nights. Harry's not sure if he wants to share this information so soon though, so he keeps quiet.

Towards the end, Dumbledore grows quiet. He pulls a heavy object from within the folds of his robes and sets it on the table, waving his wand over it and returning it to its original size. Harry can't help but stare; it glows heavily with magic, making it one of the most visible pieces he has had the fortune to look upon. He can see it clearly, see the magical runes on the sides, see the age and the feelings and memories emanating from the stone. For that's surely what is in the basin – memories. Harry catches small glimpses that they weave together, the silvery slide of them as they twist together.

"It's a Pensieve," Dumbledore explains. "It's used to show thoughts from one's mind, allowing for a deeper examining of past moments. It's particularly useful for spotting patterns and to make the necessary connections." He prods the contents, encouraging the rise of a bejewelled figure. As she speaks in a hoarse voice, Harry feels a shiver run down his back.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

Dumbledore is silent as the figure settles back into the basin, his wand lying against the table in a slackened grip. Harry watches the swirl of the memories as fireworks erupt in his head. His breath is short. He's afraid to ask what this means, but he fears he already knows - had known for a long time coming now. The dreams, after all, were not just ordinary dreams.

"It's me, isn't it?" he says, still staring sightlessly at the stone bowl. "It concerns this Voldemort and me."

Dumbledore heaves another of those time-weary sighs. "Truly, Harry, I am sorry. I understand that this is all so sudden. I had wished to take our time with this, but that is no longer an option."

"If I had been able to attend the wizarding school," Harry says, looking up to meet the vibrant purple of Dumbledore's magic. From the way his magic is twisting, he truly does regret his actions; actions that Harry understands have to happen. He may not like it, but he knows that this is what must be done, knows there's a lot to do – a lot he has to do. It feels like too much to take on, and he tries not to balk, tries to think of it as one thing at a time.

Dumbledore finishes for him, "I would have hoped that it would have already been done with by now."

Harry nods and resumes his examination of the Pensieve, watching the shift of magic and trying to memorize the runes he sees there.

Dumbledore's voice when he resumes speaking has a false cheery feel to it. "We'll have to train you, of course," he says, and stands. He gives a small gesture with his wand, sending off a silver streak that disappears through the wall. Harry looks after it, watching the magic fade from the spot on the wall where it made contact.

"I have someone about your age who would love to teach you," Dumbledore says kindly, recapturing Harry's attention. "She's one of the brightest witches of your age." Harry remains seated as Dumbledore crosses the room and pulls open the kitchen door, breaking the enchantment placed upon it.

On the other side stands a woman, slightly out of breath. Harry suspects it's from her run down the stairs, but also suspects that a degree of excitement is a factor as well. Dumbledore greets her warmly, inviting the girl into the room. She returns his greeting formally, stepping into the room and approaching the table slowly, almost self-consciously. Dumbledore pulls the door closed after himself, leaving the two of them alone.

The girl takes a seat beside him, and there is an awkward pause for a moment. Harry takes the time to examine her magic; it's a bright periwinkle blue, shot with pink, lavender and yellow. Harry decides the silence has gone on long enough. He smiles and introduces himself. "Harry Potter."

She's faintly surprised for a moment, before she replies with, "Hermione Granger." She shifts on her seat, moving it closer to him. Obligingly, he moves his chair so they're more or less facing each other. "Professor Dumbledore asked me a while ago to teach you when you were found," she says.

"I know some things," Harry says, and sees her light flare with curiosity. He doesn't really want to give off the impression that he's useless.

She's excited when she speaks. "We'll get started then, shall we? Oh wait – you'll be needing a wand…." She twists in her seat, and with a flare of magic, Summons a thick book to herself. "Maybe we can just arrange a schedule; you can tell me what you already know how to do, and we can plan according to that…" She trails off, then takes the time to look at him, her voice taking an even higher level of curiosity, and maybe a small trace of doubt. "How do you do magic if you don't have a wand?"

Harry shrugs a shoulder. "Without one, I suppose." Hermione looks sceptical, so he expands a little. "It's not like I can do a whole lot. It took me ages to be able to do what you just did," – he gestures towards the book that she has on the table – "and even then, it's only with small things, or things I'm used to."

Hermione bites her lip and a small crease appears at the corners of her eyes. She's quiet for a long moment, her magic twisting and flaring too quickly for Harry to be able to get a good look at it. She says to him quietly, "Not very many people are capable of wandless magic. It might be best if you keep this quiet, even if it's a limited degree."

Harry considers this, and looking at the situations he can only imagine getting himself into, knows that this is probably a good idea. He nods, and Hermione gives a small, joyous laugh, filled with mirth and excitement despite the troubles Harry sees beneath the surface.

She stands and says, "Let's go see what we can do for you. See if we can get a head start on things."

Harry stands and follows her to the door, watching as she eases it open before stepping into the hall. He can see the gloom seeping in around the shimmer of her magic, the magic of the house easing itself into the kitchen and infecting the cheer that has somehow found a place in a hostile environment.

Harry's not exactly sure what awaits him on the other side. From what he can tell, from what he's recently learned, he knows it's not about to be easy – far from it, really. But it's not like he's going into this alone. And that makes it easier.


	3. Malicious Undertones

Draco knows he’s not a very patient person. He’s been unwillingly brought out of his comfort zone, out of what he safely knows. If he had his way, there would be no war, he’d still be on speaking terms with his father, and he wouldn’t have keep an eye on those who doubt him, lest they attack.

But he’s seen too much, been on the wrong side of things too often to have stayed passive. Things would have turned out very differently if he hadn’t come across the Dark Lord in the Forest those long years ago. The encounter still sends shivers down his spine, the memory of a harsh voice hissing words like, ‘ _Malfoy_ ,’ and ‘ _a fresh, new body_ ,’ and ‘ _Lucius would be honoured_.’

Of course his father would have been honoured. Draco found that out when he had ‘reported in’ on his first Hogwarts year.

Things are much different now. Now they have Harry Potter, and although no one really knows much about him or how much help he will be, he’s defeated the Dark Lord once before, right? Surely saving the world a second time would be no skin off his back.

Draco doesn’t think so. Despite what people think, Potter is just as regular as all the others, at least in the fact that he seems to yearn for a more normal life. He, like Draco, doesn’t seem to relish the thought of being involved in a war. He’s not seeking out glory.

Draco hasn’t had the opportunity to talk much with Potter since their arrival at Grimmauld Place. Potter has been shepherded back and forth; there’s finding him a wand, having magical training lessons with Granger and a few other select professors, and whatever it is Dumbledore goes on about. There’s really no need for him and Draco to ever speak again, really. Draco is watched carefully whenever he enters the same room Potter is in at the time. Draco knows that even with Dumbledore’s reassurances, there is still the odd member of the Order that does not quite trust him. It’s beyond paranoid, he thinks, as it’s mostly residual feelings about his family name. He thinks he’s proved himself by now.

Potter seems to be doing well, though. His secret is obviously still kept under wraps. Though – and perhaps this is because Draco has actively been looking for it – Potter has had a few instances where it’s plain that there’s something different about him. Draco suspects that being in a magical house makes it all easier, but there are things that he sees that others can’t. On the few cases where Draco has been lucky enough to come across him, he’s noticed Potter’s obvious curiosity with one object or another, or something between here and there that is invisible to the naked eye.

Draco desperately wants to ask him what it is he is examining, what he thinks about it or what he sees, but he never has the chance. There are always too many people around, fluttering about like they’re afraid they’ll lose him if they blink.

Even if Draco is unable to speak with him, he knows that Potter is able to tell when he is around. Draco remembers Potter describing his magic; the tone of voice he had taken still makes Draco’s stomach twist when he recalls it. When they’re close, Draco can see the hint of a smile on his face, see the muscles relaxing under his worn clothes. It’s a heady sensation, Draco has discovered. That _he_ is able to do this to Potter, be able to put Potter at ease with just the wave of his magic. Potter is always able to seek him out, sending him a small, encouraging smile before he is whisked off. Which, Draco thinks, is odd. After all, shouldn’t _he_ be the one encouraging Potter?

Draco thinks it’s sad that this is the case. Surely Potter feels that he’s been thrust into this, feels alone in what is going on. When was the last time he had an opportunity to decide something for himself? Let alone _think_? Between meetings and lessons, it doesn’t look as if Potter is ever alone.

Grimmauld Place is seeing a lot more action then it has been lately; it is no longer sleepy and forgotten, but bursting with activity. Granger has Potter training every day, from sun up to sun down and there still seems to be time for meetings, plans, inquiries…. So it's no surprise that Draco hardly ever gets the chance to talk with Potter anymore.

He manages to stumble upon one lesson, though, quite by accident. It's the raised voice that gets his attention, a voice that sounds like Potter. He doesn't look like one to raise his voice, and Draco wonders if he's just imagined it, or is hearing only what he wants to hear.

He approaches the door silently, stepping carefully so he doesn't disturb the floorboards as he creeps towards the room. The door is open a very small amount, and Draco peers in through the crack, the light from the room splashing onto the floor in a thin strip. Carefully, he edges the door open a little further.

Potter's sitting on the floor, his head in his hands and fingers weaved through his hair. Granger is saying something, but Draco can't quite make out what it is. He presses his ear closer the opening and wonders if he should risk trying a spell to hear better.

It's not needed, though, when Potter stands up, shaking his hand as if trying to loosen the muscles before he grips his wand. Draco sees his knuckles whiten.

"You can take a break, you know," Granger says, but Potter doesn't hear her. Draco's not able to make out what Potter is pointing his wand at, but he imagines it to be some sort of practise dummy.

" _Deprimo_!" Potter shouts. There's a bang and a small thump, but nothing else. Potter curses and throws his wand down.

"Oh, Harry, don't do that!" Granger says, and Draco sees her dart past to where Potter had thrown his wand. There's a small clatter as she picks the wand up, turns and hands it to Harry.

"I don't know how you expect me to learn this," Potter says sullenly, but he takes his wand back regardless.

"It just takes time," Granger assures him. She moves back out of Draco's limited line of sight, giving Harry room. "You're always free to take a break," she reminds him.

"Yeah, but I'm not really, am I?" Potter shoots back. Draco thinks he knows where Potter's going with this, the pressure making him feel as if everything needs to be done now, as quickly as possible. They aren't making it sound like there's any other option, with all the sessions and everything coming fast and hard.

Potter moves to the other side of the room until he is standing facing the door. Draco moves away from the opening, but he's not fast enough. Potter's wand lowers, and of course he spots Draco. It makes lurking in the hallway ludicrous, so he pushes open the door and strides though.

“Think I can step in?” he asks and sees Granger’s lips purse. She shrugs, though, and motions for him to join.

Draco casts a look to where the dummy stands off to the side, a little battered and charred from spells. It doesn’t look as if Potter’s latest spell has had any effect on it, unless you count the fact that the wood is a little splintered on the top.

Potter looks at him, interested, as Draco walks towards him. He takes Potter's wand hand in his, turning Potter's fist this way and that. He taps the back of it lightly with a finger and says, "Relax it a bit. You're holding your wand too tight. Try to take a deep breath before casting. Loosen your shoulders, spread your feet apart a little more." Potter follows each of his directions easily, moving under every tap Draco's finger makes.

"There's a lot more to casting than just pointing and saying an incantation," Draco says, moving around behind Potter, lifting Potter's arm until his wand is pointing at the dummy. "You have to keep in mind your positioning. Your wand will know if you're trying to force something when it's not working for you. Try now," he says, and takes a few steps back to stand beside Granger. She gives him a small nod of her head and he smothers a smirk.

Potter follows his instructions, not gripping his wand as tightly as before, keeping his shoulders relaxed and perpendicular to the dummy. He takes a breath and tries again. " _Deprimo_!"

The dummy is forced down to the floor, compressed and weighed down by the spell. It's weak, but it's a start, something Potter can feel accomplished about. There will be time to perfect things later. Draco just hopes it won't be in battle, not soon, anyway.

Potter's fiddling with his wand, rolling it between his fingers and brushing his fingertips along the wood. Beside him, Granger consults her watch.

"It's getting late," she says. "We still have much to do tomorrow. Please do try to get some rest tonight, okay, Harry?”

Potter nods, but doesn’t look over to where Granger is standing. She sighs, mutters a quiet ‘thank you’ to Draco and leaves the room.

“As much as it pains me to say it, she’s right,” Draco says. “If you can’t focus, it just ends up making things harder.” Potter huffs but doesn’t say anything, so Draco tries again. “Once you’re more used to your wand and such, it’ll get easier. It’ll be second nature.”

Potter makes a guttural sort of grunt, which Draco takes as concession, weak though it may be. He watches as Potter moves across the room and stuffs his wand in his back pocket. He comes to a stop before the window and stares out into the cold, rainy Muggle street. “Hermione’s said that the Order has been going out to fight against the Death Eaters nearly every day.”

Draco remains silent. Potter is pressed up against the glass, looking like a bird trying to escape from its cage. His gaze, Draco thinks, is longing as he stares out the streaked windowpane. “Potter,” Draco begins to say.

“I hate this place,” Potter says. “The magic in here is wrong. It feels too oppressing.”

“But that’s only half of it, isn’t it?” Draco asks. When Potter doesn’t readily respond, Draco turns and flicks his wand at the door, casting an Imperturbable and locking charms. When he turns back to Harry, he sees him studying the door and the magic Draco had put on it. “Can you tell me now?” _Do you trust me enough to say?_ he thinks to himself.

Potter gives a sigh and brushes a hand through his hair, making the ends stand up a little more than usual. “It’s a cage, is what this is. They’re not about to let me out any time soon, are they?”

Draco doesn’t respond. He figures that Potter already knows the answer to that anyway.

Potter’s gaze is stony as he examines the tapestry. “They say they want to keep me _safe_ and make sure that I _know my stuff_ before we do anything. They’re just prolonging the war if they keep it up. It’s not helping anyone.” His fist clenches at his side.

“I don’t know what Dumbledore’s plans are,” Draco says. “No one does, really. He’s got his own agenda. Talking to him, or anyone else for that matter, isn’t going to help matters. So sometimes you have to work around it all.”

Potter turns back to face him, his eyebrow quirked. “What are you suggesting?”

Draco knows he has to be careful. Though Potter has been quiet and cautious during his stay here in Grimmauld Place, Draco has a feeling that he can also be quite impulsive. Though he also thinks that Potter is a bit too smart to go about without thought.

But what else does he have left to lose? What’s going to keep him steady?

Draco treads carefully. “The majority of the Order members are able to act for themselves, use their judgment for taking action. I think that, once you’ve shown them that you’re ready…”

“What, they’ll let me out for a run?” Potter says, somewhat snidely. “And that I’ll come right back when they say so? Like a dog?” He stuffs his hands in the pockets of the Muggle jeans he insists on wearing. He hasn’t had the opportunity to get any decent robes, and the only ones that have been provided for him are from the Weasleys’ youngest son. Even they are too big on Harry’s diminutive form. “I don’t like being locked up. It reminds me of when–” And then he stops, turning his face away like he’s said something vulgar. “I don’t think they’re ready to let me fight.”

Draco swallows around the lump in his throat. He’s not sure what Potter had stopped himself from saying, only that it’s probably not something he wishes to hear.

Potter seems to get a hold of himself quickly. “It’s just, I don’t like the inactivity of it. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot to learn still, but I just… I want to do something. And it’s only striking me that this is so much bigger than I thought it was, isn’t it?”

Draco sees Potter curl into himself, shoulders hunching as his arms cross his chest. “I don’t like it, the fighting and stuff. What’s going on here,” he gestures around the room, the Black tapestry hanging on the wall and the battered dummy in the corner, “is just a small part of what’s happening.”

Draco doesn’t know what to say, what he _can_ say to help ease Potter’s anxiety. He moves to stand beside Potter, looking out into the street. From the corner of his eye, Potter looks as if he’s lost in memories, eyes unfocused and glazed. He blinks and turns his head slightly to face Draco.

“Ron’s very taken with chess,” he says, and Draco’s a little surprised at the turn this conversation has taken. “I’ve never gotten a chance to play it myself, so he’s explained it all to me. He used a few metaphors, like Voldemort was the king and Bellatrix the queen, and all his other Death Eaters as pawns, and we needed to take them all out. And that the quickest way to beat the other player is to take out the king.”

“Chess and war are one and the same,” Draco says, and Potter nods.

“I think it helped me realise that I can do something now, that I’m not really useless. Even if what I may end up doing may be taken as reckless.” He gives a small humourless laugh; Draco throws a look at him.

“You want to get at Bellatrix.”

“Mostly,” Potter says after a beat. “But it’s more than that now. Even without being here, I’ve already gotten so far into this. And all I can do now is try to take it as it comes, but–” he breaks off and releases a hard breath of air.

There’s no denying that Potter needs a form of release, something to take his anger out on and release him from his thoughts. It’s just, in an old dilapidated building such as this, there’s nothing that can fulfil this purpose.

So Draco considers. He can think of one such place that might give Potter the opportunity to get away, to clear his mind. And why not? Besides, it will also allow him to take out his frustrations, practise his skills, and get him out of this building.

“I have an idea,” he says, and Potter turns to him with a hopeful expression on his face that forces Draco to remember how to breathe. “You think you can manage to meet me in the hallway at midnight?”

Potter bites his lip. “I think so,” he says. Potter has a room to himself, and even though Grimmauld Place is Unplottable, undetectable and under Fidelius, they still have a few protections in place that monitor the house, tracking those who enter and leave. Draco thinks they may be a little paranoid, but after Diggle bailed, he figures they can’t be too careful.

“Good,” Draco says, giving a tight nod. He twirls his wand between his fingers a bit, and is torn between staying and going. Just as he decides to leave the room, Potter calls him back.

“What are we going to do?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. His hands are clasped before him, the fingers entwining around one another endlessly.

Draco gives him a reassuring smile. “You’ll see, and you’ll love it.”

That garners a small smile from Potter. “That’s a hefty promise,” he says, and Draco can’t help but think that Potter is _teasing_ him.

Draco gives a last teasing smirk and raises his wand. “Oh, and dress warmly,” he says, then undoes the charms on the door, striding from the room with a self-assured step.

It’s about time.

* * *

Draco stands just before the door, glaring at the umbrella stand that is his only company in the hallway. All these years of using this house as Headquarters, and no one had ever thought to fix it up more than was necessary? No wonder those who were imprisoned here were depressed.

There’s a soft creak on the stairs, and Draco looks over expectantly. There stands Potter, pressed against the banister as he eases himself down the stairs, trying to avoid making noise. It’s impossible with this house though, and Potter’s efforts go for naught, but the thought is there. Draco makes a mental note to show Potter how to cast a muffling charm around his feet.

When Potter reaches him in front of the door, his eyes sparkling with curiosity and a yearning to escape, looking at Draco as if he’s his own personal saviour, Draco’s excitement increases. They’re infectious, Potter’s emotions.

He turns to face the door before he loses focus on what he’s supposed to be doing. “The charms around the door are very sensitive,” he tells Potter, who’s hovering behind him and peering over his shoulder. Carefully, he lifts his wand until it’s hovering a scant inch away from the face of the door.

Behind him, he can feel the heat coming off from Potter, is able to inhale the scent of the cheap shampoo that is provided in the bathrooms. There is an underlying scent that is distinctly _Potter_ , though, musky and warm. Nice as it is, it proves to be a bit distracting when he’s trying to break through thick wards.

The only light is coming off from far down the hallway, leaving the entrance dark enough to allow Draco to make out the glow from the spells. He picks through the wards one by one, teasing them into being dormant for only a short amount of time. He has the upper hand of knowing what wards are there, how they are layered over top of one another.

The door begins to vibrate just a little bit, the glow from his wand spreading up the wood as if it were blushing. He throws an anxious look behind his shoulder, but no one is coming down the stairs; there is no noise from overhead, or down in the kitchen. He only sees Potter.

He turns back in time to see the glow fading, the vibrations ceasing. There is a small click and the dim light from the Muggle streetlights shows between the door and its frame. Before they are able to head out though, Draco has one more precaution.

He turns around and brushes against Potter’s chest, and with how close Potter is standing behind him, Draco’s not surprised. Potter takes a few hurried steps back and gives Draco a quizzical look.

Draco raises his wand, and Potter eyes it for a moment before his eyes dart back up to meet Draco’s. He gives a look that quite clearly asks Draco what the hell he thinks he’s doing.

Draco smiles what he thinks is a reassuring smile and raises his wand until it is eye level with Potter. Potter flinches away, making Draco stop and explain. Of course Potter would be wary of having a wand pointed at him – anyone would be. “I’m just going to be casting a camouflage spell. It’ll prevent you from being easily seen.”

After a moment, Potter gives a small nod and allows Draco to tap him with his wand. The Disillusionment spell spreads over Potter’s face, down his torso, and conceals his limbs, making him disappear in the hallway. There’s a faint ripple when Potter moves, but other than that it’s near perfect. Draco repeats the spell on himself, then grabs for where he thinks Potter’s hand is. Easing the door open, he draws Potter out in the street and shuts the door behind them carefully.

“I’ll have to redo the process again when we come back,” he warns Potter as they step into the night. The street is quiet, the only sound the low buzz of the streetlights. Draco leads the way down the steps, looking around to makes sure there is no one watching.

When they’ve reached the square out front, he pulls Potter closer by the hand. “Apparating,” he says, “works better the closer you are.” It’s not exactly true, but Potter doesn’t need to know that just yet. He thinks he hears Potter mutter something under his breath, but doesn’t try to make it out. Instead, he tightens his grip around Potter’s waist and turns on his heel.

* * *

When they come out from the Apparition this time, Potter doesn’t stumble; he remains standing tall and firm beside Draco. Draco allows for his arm to fall and Potter to take a small step away. He maintains a loose grip around Potter’s wrist though, to ensure that they do not get separated.

They stand in the middle of the main street of Hogsmeade, the silence enveloping them and wrapping around their shoulders like a shroud. Potter walks around, forcing Draco to move with him as he takes it all in – the storefronts, the buildings, looking up and down the streets and into alleys. Draco hears the gravel crunch under Potter’s trainers as he walks. “Where are we?” Potter asks in excitement.

“Hogsmeade Village,” Draco replies in an undertone. He pulls slightly on Potter’s wrist and leads him down the silent street. As they pass one of the many shops, an owl hoots from above and flees from its perch. There’s the flutter of its wings, and then nothing as it’s swallowed by the darkness.

Through the connection he has with Potter, Draco is able to feel every time Potter cranes his head around. Appearing in the middle of a wizarding town is a large step up from Potter’s introduction with the Blacks’ house. Draco breaks out into a smile; he’s impatient to show Potter the castle.

Potter trails behind him as they walk down the lane, only Draco’s grip on his wrist keeping him on the path. He asks the odd question here and there, pointing out things to Draco that he otherwise would have overlooked. As they near the castle, Potter’s questions cease and he begins to walk a bit faster until he is walking alongside Draco.

“There’s…” Potter begins, breaks off and, from the sound of it, turns in a circle.

Draco releases his hold around Potter’s wrist as he turns and asks under his breath, “What?” He throws a cautious glance around the path before deciding to lift the spells. They are close enough to the castle for it to be safe, Draco thinks. And no one knows they are out here, which can be both a curse and a blessing.

Draco ends up hitting Potter’s shoulder, but it works nonetheless. Potter appears before him, his face tilted upwards a little and catching the moonlight. His eyes are wide and his face shows an openness that has been nonexistent during his time at Grimmauld Place, alight with curiosity as it is. He turns to Draco in wonder and asks in an awed tone, “Can’t you feel it?”

Draco’s brow furrows and he rolls his shoulder. “I suspect that whatever you’re feeling has to do with the castle,” he says. Potter interrupts before he can continue.

“Castle?” he asks eagerly. “The one everyone keeps mentioning? Hogwarts?”

Draco can’t keep the smile off his face, even with his stomach churning with nerves. Their stationary position is beginning to making him anxious, making him feel more and more exposed and vulnerable as the time passes. Draco’s response is quick. “Yes, but we can’t stay for long.” He tries to ignore the fallen look that has appeared on Potter’s face and beckons him forward. Draco breaks into a quick pace, seeing the castle gates appear over the rise of the hill. Potter follows at a slightly slower speed, ensuring that he doesn’t trip over anything.

As they reach the gates, Draco’s heart skips a beat. The gates are sealed shut, and how could he have expected anything else at this time of night, and during a war? He licks his lips; he had heard that Dumbledore had keyed the magic of the gates to respond to the magical signatures of members of the Order in case there was an emergency. But he’s unsure if it would work for _him_.

Potter moves up behind him, and Draco throws him a sideways glance. He doesn’t want to have to leave, teasing Potter with what’s on the other side of the gate, to be the one responsible for baiting Potter and then snatching the coveted experience from him before he even has the chance to let go.

Draco takes a deep breath and extends his palm towards the gate, curling it around one of the cool metal bars. The gate shudders under his touch and creaks. The section under his hand increases in temperature, but he can’t release his grip.

The gate gives another shudder, and opens the smallest of amounts, just enough for a slender man to fit through. Draco urges Potter forwards, who walks through as he stares up towards the top of the gate, open-mouthed. Draco slips in behind him, and as soon as his hand leaves the metal, now a normal temperature, the gates begin to close.

“Where are we headed?” Potter asks, the excitement creeping back into his face. Draco is forcibly reminded of how he felt upon his arrival to Hogwarts when he was eleven; the same child-like curiosity is in Potter now.

“This way,” Draco says, and leads the way over to the Quidditch pitch, Potter trotting along with him.

As the castle turrets come into view, Draco hears Potter inhale sharply. Looking over, he sees Potter falter just a bit, slack-jawed as he takes in the grandeur of the castle. Draco allows a triumphant smirk to flirt with his lips. He knew that this was something Potter would enjoy.

“It’s amazing,” Potter breathes, never allowing his eyes to deviate from Hogwarts. His steps become more hurried as more of the castle comes into view.

“We’re not going up to the castle just yet.” Draco hates to remind him, but there is plenty of time to explore the castle later on, he hopes. For now, he wants to get Potter in the air, give him the ability to fly.

When Potter grins, it’s as if all the stress that has taken over him falls away. Draco hasn’t realised how much Potter had been carrying until it had disappeared completely. He knows for sure now that he has made the right choice, regardless of any possible repercussions. They can wait until later.

Draco swerves off course and heads towards the locker room off to the side of the Quidditch pitch where the ball crates are housed. He taps his wand against the door and hears a faint click as it swings open before him. With a whispered _Lumos_ , he is able to easily locate the crate, and he gestures Potter to come over and help him with it. Potter is giddy with excitement, and Draco bites the inside of his cheek. Before they leave, Draco nabs a spare broom that looks as if it hasn’t been ridden in ten years.

Together, they carry the crate outside and walk towards the pitch. Along the way, Draco gives Potter a quick run down on Quidditch, just touching on the basic points: four balls, seven players, the positioning and scoring. Potter listens avidly, hanging on to his every word.

The pitch is quiet as they walk into the centre. Draco puts the crate down and rummages in his pocket for his emergency broom, enlarging it and handing it over to Potter. Potter takes it reverently, smoothing his hands over the polished wood. “It’s not the best of brooms,” says Draco, “but it will have to do for now.” The broom he took from the shed isn’t the best of quality either – quite possibly worse – but it’ll do well enough to allow him to keep up with Potter as he teaches him the mechanics.

He takes Potter through the steps of mounting and gripping the handle, explains how a good broom will be almost one with your mind. For the earlier models, there’s a bit of work to be done with leaning, but the broom Potter has is decent. Potter shows a natural ability for flying, even when he hasn’t even left the ground yet. He catches onto the concepts quickly, sometimes seeming to understand a point before Draco has made it.

Before he allows Potter to get up in the air, he casts a Notice Me Not charm over the pitch, on the off chance that a student looks out a window and sees activity in the air. When Potter does get up into the air, Draco has to add an Imperturbable charm as well, for Potter’s whoop rings out over the silence of the night.

Potter is indeed a natural flier; the broom moves smoothly with him as he turns and cuts through the air. Draco takes the time to study him from the ground, examining his flying style, before he too takes flight. He shows Potter a few variants of moves employed in a typical game of Quidditch, moves that Draco remembers using from his own days in playing the game. Potter is able to keep up remarkably well, and it’s not long until Draco takes him back to the ground.

They touch down just before the crate. Draco bends over and opens it, explaining the balls and their role in the game as he does so. He hands one of the Bludger bats that rest in the crate to Potter, allowing him the ability to get a feel for it. “I figured it might be a good idea for you to take out some frustration on the Bludgers,” he says.

Potter hefts the bat. There has been a slight quirk to his lips the entire time, breaking out into a full-blown grin quite often. Draco sends Potter off into the air again before releasing the ball. The wind whistles over his ear as the Bludger takes to the sky, skyrocketing upwards in a tight spiral. Draco takes the other bat and follows it.

They hit the ball between them, sending it back and forth across the pitch. Potter’s aim is impeccable, and Draco thinks this is mostly because the ball is crafted entirely by magic. It would be a bright star in the darkness for Potter. But then he remembers Potter’s practise with the ball in his small flat, honing his reflexes as he sent it careening between the wall and shield.

Draco has no idea how long they stay in the air, and neither does he particularly care. It has been worth it to give Potter this small window of space. When they touch back down, out of breath and pink-cheeked from the wind, Potter is still sporting a wide grin. Draco spells the Bludger to return to the crate, locking it in securely and closing the lid once more.

“Thank you,” Potter says sincerely as Draco straightens. “That meant a lot.”

Draco flushes a little. “It’s no problem,” he says. After all, occasions like this look as if they will be become few and far between as time goes on. He takes back the broom as Potter hands it over, shrinking it down and placing it once more inside his pocket. They carry the crate back to the room silently. It’s been awhile since Draco has been in the air, and both he and Potter are slightly out of breath.

Potter throws a last look at the castle as they begin the walk down to the village. “You’ll be able to come back, you know,” Draco reassures him. “I’m sure for one reason or another, Dumbledore will bring you here.” He leaves out the ‘eventually’.

Potter sighs. “I suppose,” he says, though he sounds a little dejected. He keeps looking over his shoulder as they walk, even long after the castle has disappeared behind the bend.

As they near the gate, Potter takes his hand again as Draco reaches out to touch the gate, hoping that it works this way too. The gate opens with no problems though, allowing them to slip through. Potter gives his hand a light squeeze before letting go, and Draco feels his heart beat a little bit faster.

He’s not sure what it is exactly he feels for Potter. Draco thinks it had started with his childhood imagination, creating a Potter that couldn’t possibly match any real version. In the excitement of actually meeting him, those fantasies of childhood friendships becoming something more rose once more to the foreground, taking hold of him and flooding his mind with images of what could be. Draco glances at Potter from the corner of his eye; Potter’s hair is mussed from the wind, his cheeks still holding their flush. Draco remembers how Potter looked as he straddled the broom, his Muggle jeans clinging to him and leaving little to the imagination. There’s no denying it; Draco seems to be developing a slight crush on the other man.

Draco is late in realising that he’s too distracted, focusing more on Potter than the road ahead, or any potential dangers it harbours. So when Potter shoves him off to the side, Draco has no idea what is going on until he feels the slight burn that accompanies spellfire as it flies past his cheek.

He swears. He should have been more careful; he had completely forgotten to Disillusion them again. And _he_ should be the one shoving Potter away from harm, not the other way around.

He can’t see where the spell had come from. Another speeds towards them from the opposite direction, and Draco doesn’t notice it in time. It cuts the material of his trousers and creates a deep gash in his calf. He grits his teeth, shoves Potter behind him and erects a shield, narrowing his eyes as he examines the road before them and the trees that cover them on both sides. Potter makes a frustrated sound from behind him. “I’m not useless, you know,” he snaps.

“I know that,” Draco says in an undertone. “But you’re a bit more valuable.” He thinks he sees a figure creeping along the edge of the trees, and fires off a spell in that direction. It passes through his shield harmlessly, the protection allowing for spells to go through one way.

Draco knows he should just grab Potter and Apparate; Merlin knows it would be safer. But there’s this traitorous strand in him that makes him want to prove his worth, make himself stand out to Potter.

He reacts quickly when the next spell comes at them from the tree line, blocking the hex before it has the chance to hit the barrier. It flies off and disappears into the gloom of the trees. Draco’s heart is racing, his pulse loud in his ears. Out of the corner of his mouth, he asks, “Do you have your wand with you?”

Potter is silent behind him. Draco takes a chance and looks back at him. Potter is looking off into the forest, his eyes darting from side to side, finding the gaps in the trees. Draco wonders what he sees, and how many are hiding amongst the trees. Something tells him he’d prefer not knowing. He blocks yet another curse, and then another and another. One ricochets off the shield, making it waver and bow.

“No,” Potter says eventually. Draco is able to detect a faint trace of alarm in his voice.

“First rule of being a wizard, Potter: always carry your wand with you. No exceptions.” Potter has demonstrated that he has no need for a wand, time and time again, but in the face of their enemies, Draco would prefer not to give too much away too soon.

“Draco…” Potter says, the faint thread of alarm in his voice becoming stronger. The spells are coming faster, becoming more threatening, and Draco can’t spare a moment. His shield is beginning to fail; he can’t hope to block every spell before it reaches them. The figures begin to emerge from the trees, and Draco begins to panic. He reaches back and grabs Potter, holding tight to whatever part of him he has managed to grab a hold of. The shield flickers once more before breaking with a resounding crack. It’s not loud enough to drown out the voice that rings clear through the night, though.

“You’re far out numbered, young Malfoy,” says the nearest cloaked and masked figure – Yaxley, Draco thinks. “It would be easiest for you to give up this guise now. You are your father’s son, after all,” he sneers, and Draco’s temper rises.

He snarls and pulls Potter closer to him, until Potter is pressed against his side. “You’re a fool if you think I’d follow through with your suggestions.” Potter makes a small sound, his body tense where there’s contact between them. There’s a small titter of laughter from around them. Draco hopes that they have not had the forethought to put anti-Apparition wards around the surrounding area. His palm is sweaty where it clings to Potter.

Before them, Yaxley raises his wand threateningly and Draco spots his opportunity. He is able to shoot off a last curse as a distraction, but he does not see the Death Eaters that have crept behind them that also get in a few. He spins on the spot and sees the curses just beginning to make contact with Potter’s back, feels the heat as one strikes him as well.

The squeeze of Apparition cinches around them as they leave behind the tree-lined lane, and the mass of Death Eaters. Draco thinks he hears the last frustrated cry as they disappear, but it’s drowned by the rushing noise in his ears.

Draco lands badly, unsteady on his injured leg. He crumples, falling down to the ground and dragging Potter with him, and they collapse in a heap. His breathing is shallow, his heart still racing from yet another close call. The spell that caught him just as they left has only singed the front of his robes, but there’s the feeling of a weight resting solidly on his chest. He stops breathing though, when he remembers that Potter had been hit with spells as well.

“Potter?” he asks frantically, turning to face him. Potter is splayed out next to him, face down and gasping. Draco glances down at him and pales. The back of Potter shirt is covered with blood, the material stuck to his skin in shreds. Draco swallows, fighting down the bile that rises in his throat.

“It – it’s not as bad as it probably looks,” Potter reassures him. His head is turned to the side, facing Draco and his eyes are closed, his face shining with a sheen of sweat. Draco’s hands tremble as he directs his wand to cleanse the blood from Potter’s back. Potter is right, though; whatever spell caught him never got the opportunity to sink in fully. The results could have been much worse, but as it is, it looks as if Potter’s back has been seared, and there are shallow cuts crisscrossed over its expanse.

Draco rummages in his cloak pockets, searching for his potions kit. He knows he has some dittany in there. If he’s lucky, he might still have a small phial of phoenix tears left. He finds the dittany first, though, and decides not to waste more time than necessary. He casts a quick spell to banish the torn remains of Potter’s shirt and another that should help seal the cuts. Then he very carefully applies the dittany, working around the burns. Potter’s eyes are still closed, and his breathing is a little unsteady; if Draco didn’t know any better, he’d say that Potter was experiencing nothing more than a bad dream.

He works a burn ointment gently onto the skin next, watching carefully as the skin turns into a shiny red, smooth and sensitive. He struggles to breathe in deeply and releases a pent up breath, sitting back on his heels. He runs a shaky hand over his face, not caring if it’s covered in blood or not.

There’s a faint rustle as Potter sits up, pushing up with his elbows. He frowns at Draco, directing his gaze at the centre of Draco’s chest. “Here,” he whispers, adjusting himself so he can reach out towards Draco. Draco watches as Potter touches him with the tips of fingers that tremble slightly, right where there is that persisting weight.

Potter’s brow furrows as he concentrates, and Draco watches as a small drop of sweat rolls down his temple. “Potter,” he says softly, not wanting to ruin his concentration, but neither does he want Potter to exert himself over Draco – especially after the danger Draco had dragged him into.

Potter hushes him and moves into a better position, leaning forwards as he presses his palm flat against Draco’s chest. Draco feels warmth begin to spread from the centre of the ache, forcing the weight out and distributing it until Draco is left only with the warm tingle of Potter’s magic. He takes a deep breath and holds it.

“Better?” Potter asks.

“Much,” Draco says, reaching up to take the hand that Potter still has pressed to his chest. He runs his thumb across the back in one quick swipe before laying it down on the grass between them. “Thank you.”

“I should be the one to thank you.” Potter gives a weak smile and begins to stand, swaying slightly until he’s found his balance. He offers a hand out to Draco, which Draco takes gratefully and uses to leverage himself up, keeping his weight off his left leg. He’ll do something about it later.

Draco makes the mistake of looking over at Potter, though. Potter’s chest is on display, highlighted by the moonlight. Draco feels his mouth run dry, and he quickly looks away before he can take in any more than a smooth expanse of pale skin. He needs something to cover Potter up. Though they are now in the tail end of the summer, the night is particularly cool.

He shrugs off his cloak and hands it over to Potter. “Put this on,” he says without looking at him. “You’ll be more comfortable.” _And I’ll be able to concentrate long enough to get us out of here_.

Potter takes the cloak slowly, and there’s a faint rustle as he pulls it on. As he does so, Draco glances around quickly, taking in their position. He hadn’t given a thought to where they would appear, just focusing on somewhere away and safe. It’s a surprise to him that they’ve appeared in the meadow where Draco had last spent time with his parents, the last time that the hovering presence of the war had not been as real as it quickly became.

Draco makes sure he has everything, that there’s nothing on the ground that could be linked back to them or their arrival here. He turns back to face Potter and opens his mouth – what he wants to say, he’s not sure. An apology for sure, maybe a promise to never let it happen again, but he knows that might not be one he can keep in these times.

Potter shakes his head though. “Don’t apologise for what just happened,” he says, as if he can tell what Draco had been about to say. “I wouldn’t change anything. The flight was great; I’ve never experienced anything like it, and I’m lucky you took me along with you.”

“It would have been better if we hadn’t got attacked,” Draco says wryly. Potter allows a small smile to escape in agreement.

“Next time,” he says casually. As if Draco will allow there to be a next time. It’s not a risk he can take, not now, not when….

Draco gives a tight nod anyway, because it seems like something Potter expects. He casts the Disillusionment spells again, as he’s not about to take the chance for a second time tonight. He then tightens his grip on Potter’s hand and turns once more.

* * *

The crack of their Apparition causes the cat hiding in the alley to yowl and tear away, a bright streak of cream against the backdrop of night. Draco’s a little apprehensive, worried that their arrival will draw unwanted notice. But the square is as empty and gloomy as it’s always been.

Perhaps it’s still the aftershock of having been recently attacked, swarmed by Death Eaters, that has Draco’s heart racing. He pulls Potter towards Grimmauld Place quickly, and they stumble a bit over the loose rocks of the pavement. Draco’s leg twinges with every step, but he ignores it.

When they reach the door, Draco taps it with his wand and rushes through the string of spells to get through. The glow spreads over the surface for the second time as it slides open. Draco shoves Potter in first, closing the door quickly behind himself and hears the hum of the wards as they take up again.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Draco asks, pants really, as he’s still a little short of breath from everything. All he really wants now is a hot shower and maybe a nice cup of tea.

“I’m fine,” Potter reassures him. Then he frowns, looking at Draco critically. “You don’t look like you’re all right though. I thought I got rid of the curse, but perhaps…”

Draco shakes his head quickly. He’s not sure why, but he wants to keep the bit about his leg from Potter’s knowledge. Potter’s already spent enough energy on him, doing whatever it was that got rid of that weight from his chest. What Potter looks like he needs now is some rest.

“It’s late,” he says, and even though it’s quiet, his voice sounds as if it is echoing around the hallway. “No doubt they’ll have you up early for training. You’ve expended enough energy tonight; get some sleep, Potter.”

Potter’s mouth curves down into a frown, a small line of worry appearing on his forehead. Draco feels a small burst of warmth; Potter is worried over _him_ , despite the odds, and for whatever reason.

“Bed, Potter,” he says and points to the staircase. Potter rolls his eyes and continues down the hallway, pausing when he reaches the staircase to look back at Draco. “I meant what I said, you know; I wouldn’t change anything about what happened tonight.”

Potter may say that, but Draco has his own thread of guilt and doubt. Being the one who knows more about the wizarding world, he should have been more prepared, diligently watching for any threat. Instead, he feels as if he has let down Potter, bringing him into a threatening situation, acting like a teen sneaking out and most certainly not like an adult who understands the threats and chooses to ignore them anyway.

Potter’s quiet voice brings him out of his thoughts. “’Night, Draco,” he says, before turning and creeping back up the stairs. Draco watches him go, realising for the first time that Potter has never called him ‘Malfoy’.

But what did he expect? Potter doesn’t know his family history, his father. The two of them haven’t been at odds – never had the opportunity to be, anyway. So why is it such a big surprise to be called by his given name?

Maybe, Draco thinks as he limps towards the kitchen, it’s a shock because he can count the number of people who use his given name on one hand. To add Potter to that number is a nice thought.

Draco makes a steaming cup of tea and contemplates what will happen in the future. He’s curious to see where this war will go now, and whether or not he’ll be able to see it through.

* * *

Hermione tends to wake with the sun now, preferring to get a good start on her day. It’s a habit from her Hogwarts days, where she would cram in that extra hour to make sure all of her assignments were top notch, maybe make sure she understood the concept that would be explored later on in the day.

After having gone so long being the only one who took her studies so seriously, it’s been a great pleasure to be able to tutor Harry, who shares her passion for knowledge. Hermione thinks this is mostly because it’s a foreign concept, something new to be learned after years of not knowing about it. If she’s honest with herself, Harry probably wouldn’t have tried as hard as he is now if he had attended Hogwarts, like a normal kid.

She is surprised, however, by how quickly he’s been taking it all in. He had told her he knew some things, but she had no idea that he knew so much. What she has been able to teach him, he caught on so quickly that they are speeding through the list Hermione had drafted for this very purpose. And he’s not the only one learning.

As she makes her way down to the kitchen, the house remains quiet. The majority of the Weasleys are at the Burrow, with a few exceptions. Sirius and Remus are always around, though she never sees Sirius before ten. Malfoy, too, is known to stay around. After all, there’s nowhere else he has to go. They’ve never really gotten along well, but Hermione doesn’t mind him too much. Malfoy usually keeps to himself.

Hermione halts in the doorway of the kitchen, one foot over the threshold. Malfoy sits at the table – slumped over it, really. It looks as if he’s sleeping, his head pillowed on his arms. Hermione’s not very inclined to wake him; he doesn’t strike her as much of an early riser.

But just as she’s about to step through, Malfoy is already stirring. She watches as he shoves up from the table and lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, which must surely hurt from the position he has been in. He lets out a soft groan, shifting in his chair, and Hermione notices that he winces slightly.

She walks into the kitchen, heading over to where the teapot rests on the counter. She ignores Malfoy as he massages the kink out of his neck, but she glances at him from the corner of her eye, watching as he reaches a hand up to smooth his hair away from his face. He looks dreadful; there are dark circles under his eyes, and despite his effort, his hair is still a little disorganized. He’s not wearing robes for once, and the clothes underneath are rumpled; when she looks carefully, she sees what she suspects are scorch marks, grass stains, and mud. She never knew Malfoy could be so dishevelled.

He avoids her eye as she pours tea into a chipped mug for herself, carrying the pot over to the table to refill the one that rests empty in front of Malfoy. With a wave of her wand, she Summons sugar and milk, and they settle down gently on the table between them.

Malfoy takes the cup gratefully, murmuring a ‘thank you’ of sorts from behind the rim. Hermione takes a delicate sip of her own, and wishes that there were still some scones around. She thinks it's a bit much to hope that Mrs Weasley will stop by and make them all breakfast.

“Long night?” she asks wryly, after it looks as if Malfoy has had a decent amount of tea to start. Malfoy looks up at her; his eyes are usually steel-grey, but there’s a level to them that Hermione doesn’t think has been there before. A new awareness, of sorts.

“You could say that,” Malfoy says casually, drawls it really. He sets his tea down carefully, leaning back in his chair and surveying her.

Hermione doesn’t know what it is about Draco Malfoy that never fails to set her on edge. Perhaps it’s how he always gives off the air of superiority, how it always seems as if he’s looking down on her, judging her for being Muggle-born. She knows that he wouldn’t be here if that were the case, though. She knows he’s different from his father.

She makes a noncommittal sound in response, lifting her teacup to her lips once more.

Malfoy huffs and stands, his palms spread out on the table as he levers himself up.

It’s when he begins to walk that Hermione notices what is off about him.

“What happened to your leg?”

Malfoy stops in the doorway, his hand clenching down on the doorframe as if it’s the only thing keeping him up. “Who says there’s anything wrong with it?”

Hermione frowns at his back. “It’s in the way you walk, Malfoy. You’re not one to limp.”

Malfoy turns to face her, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest. She knows he’s trying to affect a casual stance, but she is able to see that there’s this faint line on his forehead, that his lips are just a little pursed. His shoulders are tense, and all of his weight looks as if it is resting on his right leg. So his stance, instead of being casual, practically shouts out his discomfort.

“What happened to your leg?” she repeats, and gestures over to the leg in question. If it’s possible, Malfoy looks more uncomfortable than ever.

“Nothing.” His reply is too quick, and he knows it. Hermione raises an eyebrow at him, making him heave a sigh and move to collapse back in the chair he had so recently vacated. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that, Granger?” He narrows his eyes at her. Hermione is a little taken aback. If she didn’t know better, she would say that Malfoy was _teasing_ her. Well.

“Does that mean you’ll give me an answer then?” She taps her nail against the porcelain of her teacup, the resulting _ting_ sounding similar to the tick of a clock in the quiet. Malfoy is silent for a while, and it looks as if he is arguing with himself.

When Malfoy does speak, he does so slowly, as if he’s measuring each word carefully. “You can understand why I’m reluctant to tell you, Granger, and it has nothing to do with our differences. It has more to do with your love of rules.”

It only takes a moment for Hermione to make sense of that. “You snuck out.” Malfoy’s silence is all the answer she needs. “That’s impossible. There would have been something in the wards. It would have been written in the log book automatically.” She nods over to where the tome rests at the far end of the table, inked names shining on its open pages.

Malfoy refuses to say anything more. And with him in an unbalanced position, Hermione is going to take advantage of this, see if she can wheedle the answers to her questions out of him.

“You snuck out and got attacked.” Malfoy winces, barely. It’s nothing more than a tightening of his mouth, a twitch of his finger, his eyes staying closed for just a moment too long when he blinks.

The biggest part of the mystery though, is how Malfoy got out in the first place, without disturbing the wards. It makes her wonder if he’s done this before. She stares at him, trying to figure it out, trying to find every possibility.

He’s done this before, she’s sure. It seems like a Malfoy thing to do, anyway – sneaking off whenever he wanted, feeling pleased with himself for getting away with it, even if he ends up getting injured. But he hasn’t got that gloating air hanging about him, which is all the evidence Hermione needs.

“You took Harry,” she said, and she feels a hot surge of anger rise in her chest. If anything had happened to him – damnit, Malfoy knows the risks!

Malfoy’s wince is more pronounced this time. He looks at her, and the expression in his eyes makes her anger abate… just a little. She fumes.

“He needed to get out. He doesn’t like being trapped in here; you should be able to tell that.” As he speaks, he becomes more sure of himself, looks less as if he regretted it.

Hermione shakes her head. “Why?” she asks.

Draco stares at her, aghast. “Have you not _looked_ at him when you’re cooped up in that dusty library, studying all hours of the day? Have you not noticed that he wants some space? _You’ve_ been the one holed up with him all day! I barely even see him, and even _I_ managed to notice that. And all you’re teaching him is defensive and offensive magic, certain charms that could be helpful along the way! What about what it means to _actually_ be a wizard? For Merlin’s sake, he doesn’t even carry his wand with him!”

Hermione flushes. Belatedly, she realises that her information has been a little limited. Much too limited from what Malfoy is telling her. She swallows her pride and says, “Yes, I realise that the information I’ve been giving to him is lacking. But it’s best to at least prepare him, isn’t it? In case something happens?” She sniffs. “Something like last night, perhaps?”

The little amount of colour that had returned to Draco’s face in his anger disappears. He sits back, resting against the back of his chair. He doesn’t look at her, preferring to stare at the table.

Hermione runs her eyes across his face. She bites her lip and points her wand at the door, causing it to snap shut, then erects an Imperturbable charm. “Tell me what happened,” she orders.

Malfoy is silent. Hermione decides to prompt him into speaking when it’s clear he’s not about to start on his own. “How’d you get out?”

Malfoy closes his eyes, and shifts uncomfortably. “It’s not that hard.”

Hermione closes her mouth and huffs a little. She has nothing to say to that, though, so she says carefully, “I’m aware that Harry has some quirks. How could I not when I’ve been, as you put it, ‘holed up with him’?” Malfoy looks up at her with a bit of surprise, then he smirks.

“If anyone was to find out, it would have to be you.” He shakes his head, then brushes away the strands of blond hair that had fallen into his eyes. Hermione can’t help but notice that, despite Malfoy’s grating personality, he is rather attractive.

She leans forward slightly and asks, “I don’t suppose you’re willing to shed a little light on it? Confirm some of my suspicions?”

Malfoy’s good humour disappears. “It’s not mine to tell, Granger,” he says coolly. Hermione backs off, nodding. It’s what she expected, to tell the truth.

“Please continue,” she invites.

Malfoy gazes over her shoulder. His eyes take on a distant look, and he says, “I took him to Hogwarts. He always looked so interested in it whenever it came up, and I knew it’s something that would be of some interest to him.

“We Apparated to Hogsmeade, then walked the rest of the way. Disillusioned of course, don’t take me for an idiot.” He looks at her and sniffs disdainfully. He returns to looking over her shoulder as he continues, as if he can’t look at her and speak at the same time. Hermione listens carefully and sips her tea. “I took him out to the Quidditch pitch, showed him how to play, let him take out some of his frustration on the Bludgers.”

Hermione had to concede that that was a great idea, if poorly executed. It was a good idea, giving Harry a method to release the anxiety that has surely been building up in him ever since that event in the street – Hermione hadn’t been there, of course, but she had heard it recounted many times.

“The Death Eaters got to us when we were leaving. I–” he winces, “–forgot to reapply the charm. They surrounded us and threw what must have been every spell our way. We got hit just as we Disapparated.”

Hermione’s fingers tighten around the delicate handle of her teacup. “What did they do?” She is furious, but not at Malfoy. Not much, anyway; he clearly looks as if he is torturing himself enough as it is. It is the Death Eaters that get to her this time. No doubt they had been gloating over the fact that they had finally cornered Harry, with Malfoy no less. She has to smirk, though; she can only imagine their level of frustration when they realised that they had allowed the two of them to escape a _second_ time.

“I don’t know what they hit us with. Potter had some burns on his back, a few shallow cuts; the spells hadn’t had the time to sink in fully before we had gone. It would have been much worse if they had made complete contact.” Hermione nods. Apparating was tricky business; a successful Apparition erected a delicate barrier around the person, making sure that the wizard was able to travel safely. Splinching happened when the barrier was weak, allowing the odd bit to be left behind. Adding a spell into the mix… Hermione gives a small shudder.

“It was easy enough to restore Potter to near perfect condition,” Malfoy says, a little haughtily in Hermione’s opinion. “I carry my emergency potions kit with me everywhere.”

“Of course,” she says. “And I suppose in your hurry to heal Harry, you forgot yourself?”

Malfoy flushes and looks down at the tabletop. Hermione can’t help but be a bit surprised. She hadn’t actually thought that that was the case. Maybe it was time to revise what she thought she knew about Malfoy. He’s obviously proven himself during his time with the Order, that’s for sure.

She sighs, then refills her teacup. The tea in Malfoy’s cup has no doubt cooled, so she Vanishes what remains and refills that too. Malfoy’s thanks this time around is more audible, but still as surprising.

“You haven’t answered what happened to your leg,” Hermione points out.

Malfoy grimaces at his cup. “It’s just a cut,” he mumbles, and takes a quick gulp of tea. Hermione levels a stare at him.

“No one has ‘just a cut’ and has trouble walking. Let’s see it, then.” She stands and rounds the table, coming to a stop beside Malfoy’s chair. He stares up at her disbelievingly, and she can’t help but allow a smug grin to creep across her face. She pulls out the chair next to him and spins it so that it’s facing him. She considers making him face her with magic, but knows that if she does that, it’ll do more harm than good.

Patiently waiting seems to do the trick, though. Malfoy seems to realise that she’s not about to back down. He grumbles as he shifts his chair just enough to allow for his leg to come out from under the table, then leans over and pulls at the cuff of his trousers.

Hermione stifles her gasp as the wound comes into view. “How did you walk with that?” she asks, slightly awed as she leans forwards to get a closer look. The skin around the gash is a sickly yellow and purple, and the cut itself looks as if it’s oozing some sort of pus around the dried blood. The effect is rather nasty, probably looking worse than it actually is with the blood that’s caked around it.

“And you don’t know what sort of spell it was that caused it?”

Malfoy shakes his head, looking a little strained. Clearly, he hasn’t taken the time to even examine it. The idiot probably fell asleep at the table as soon as he returned. Merlin, how she wants to slap him.

Hermione purses her lips, then kneels down on the floor beside him. “It might be best to clear it away with hot water, rather than using magic. I don’t want to irritate the wound. It does look like it was a simple slashing hex, but you can never be sure with Death Eaters.”

“Granger,” Malfoy starts. Hermione looks up at him from her position on the floor. Malfoy is looking at her as if it’s the first time he’s ever really _seen_ her. “Why are you doing this? Offering to help me, I mean?”

Hermione rocks back onto her heels. With a couple of quick spells, she Summons a bowl of hot water and conjures a towel. She dabs the corner of the towel in the bowl, soaking the material before lifting it, and begins to gently wipe away the buildup of dried blood. “Because, Malfoy, you’re a member of the Order, whether we see eye to eye or not. We need everyone we can get.”

She hears the sneer in his voice when he speaks. “How can you know for sure that I’m really working for the Order? I could be a double agent, getting information on the enemy, like Snape.”

“If you were really working for Voldemort,” she says, and ignores Malfoy’s automatic flinch. It had taken her awhile to force herself to call him by his name, but she had seen the wisdom behind Professor Dumbledore’s words. _Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself_. “If you really worked for him, you’ve had plenty of opportunities to hand Harry over, none of which you’ve taken. To be honest, you haven’t really done anything suspicious. You mostly stay in Grimmauld Place, or follow large teams of other Order members. You hardly ever go off on your own, unless you’ve been sneaking out.” She fixes him with a stern glare. “So what do I have to go on to blame you of treachery?”

Above her, Malfoy is silent. “Very… perceptive of you, Granger,” he says eventually. Hermione wonders what he would have said otherwise, but doesn’t care to dwell on that too much.

Once all the blood and pus has been cleared, the wound really doesn’t look as bad as it once had. “I can take it from here, Granger, don’t worry yourself over me any more than you have to.” As if to seal his point, he covers the gash and shifts his leg away from her.

 _Stubborn to the very end_ , Hermione finds herself thinking with a snort. She Vanishes the pink-tinged water and stands as well. She scours the bowl clean and takes the seat beside Malfoy once more.

They sit in silence for a while, listening to the house creak and groan with age, the odd rustle or bump from who knows what sort of creature hidden in its depths. The quiet is almost peaceful, something Hermione thought she’d never share with Malfoy. They have too many disagreements between them, and though Malfoy does differ from his father in significant ways, he still holds his set of prejudices. Hermione doesn’t think it would be possible to overcome those. She still needs to ask herself if she even wants to.

Malfoy breaks the silence eventually, shattering the calm of the early morning with a very heavy topic. “The war isn’t going to stop anytime soon, is it?”

Hermione doesn’t think she can answer that, doesn’t even know if it _can_ be answered. Malfoy continues anyway, not allowing her adequate time for a reply. “He’s just going to let it go on, isn’t he?” Hermione has no question as to who ‘he’ refers to. “I know he’s got his own schedule, that there’s really not a whole lot all of us can do until something significant happens, but…” He grasps his teacup between his palms, holding tight to the porcelain. “But I can tell that it’s upsetting Potter. It’s more than just being trapped in a gloomy house that has him agitated. He knows he’s able to do something, but he’s prevented from doing it.”

Hermione listens. A lot of what he’s voicing are her own thoughts as well. She suspects that Dumbledore is getting a little apprehensive too, but he’s able to push it aside far easier than the rest of them. “I’ll talk to him soon, I think. He knows that Harry is getting close to the end of his crash course in magic; maybe he can tell him what needs to be done now, what Harry needs to do.” It’s no secret that they need Harry more than anything, and not just as an icon for being a previous destroyer of the Dark Lord. They know that it’s something that can only be finished with Harry. After all, the entire thing started with the two of them; it’s poetic justice that it’s ended by Voldemort and Harry as well.

“You think he’ll listen?” Draco asks quietly. “It doesn’t have to be big, just something to lift his spirits a little. I dare say that the high from finding Potter again has gone down.”

Hermione agrees, and her silence says as much. “I’ll mention it,” she reaffirms.

Malfoy heaves a time-weary sigh and stands. He’s still a little unsteady on his leg, but at least it doesn’t look like he’s walking on hot coals when he moves. “I think I’ll try to get some more sleep,” he says. He gives her a small smile, merely a twitch of the lips when he looks down at where she’s sitting at the table. “Thank you for the tea, and cleaning the cut.”

Hermione returns the smile with a tilt of her own lips. “You owe me one,” she says. She meant to say it jokingly, but it comes out more like a warning, something he has to own up to eventually.

Malfoy gives a curt nod and leaves the room. He doesn’t need the support of the doorframe this time.

Hermione looks over at the far end of the kitchen, turning the previous conversation over in her mind. It’s not the topics that were touched on that surprise her; she’s had a few of her ideas confirmed, or at least solidified by Malfoy, even though he doesn’t know.

No, it’s the fact that she actually had a conversation with Draco Malfoy that has her reeling.

* * *

Draco trudges up the stairs, one hand on the wall and the other clenched around the banister as he climbs. His leg is doing much better, something to do with the heat of the water relaxing his muscles. Or maybe it’s just the fact that he feels a little bit cleaner.

That had been an interesting discussion with Granger. He didn’t think it would be possible to actually talk with her; they’re a bit too different. It was nice, however, to know that he isn’t the only one frustrated by the lack of action, how things seem to be dragging on, almost purposefully.

He silently curses as he begins to walk down the long stretch of hallway before him that leads to the next staircase. Halfway down, though, he stops and pauses outside Potter’s door. There’s a faint skritching noise, like something gliding over paper. The sound brings to mind the bulging journal Potter had brought with him. His curiosity over what it contains comes to the forefront of his mind once more, and before he can stop himself, he knocks on the door to Potter’s room. The sound stops instantly.

Draco is just debating sneaking off again when there is the sound of a chair being pushed back, and footsteps across the floorboards. Draco moves away from the door in anticipation of it opening.

When Potter emerges, it looks as if his sleep has been worse than Draco’s. In fact, it looks like he’s gotten none; his face is pale and a little sweaty, his shirt sticking to him and his bottom lip looks as if it’s been bitten constantly. The bags under his eyes look nearly as dark as his hair. Draco blinks.

“Oh,” Potter says upon seeing him. “Hullo.” He rubs a hand over his face, yawns, and asks, “Breakfast?”

Draco shakes his head. “No, I just heard a noise outside your door and was wondering what you were doing, is all.”

“Eavesdropping?” Potter asks, and Draco shifts a little guiltily. “I don’t mind,” Potter mentions, but it doesn’t make Draco feel that much better, honestly. Potter stands back and holds the door open. Draco takes the invitation and staggers into Potter’s room.

Potter frowns and follows his progress with a careful eye. He leaves the door just slightly ajar, walks over the desk and sits on the chair there. Draco sits on the bed, as it’s the only other seat in the small room, sinking into the mattress.

“I’m going to throw the idea out that it’s not just sleep deprivation that has you stumbling around.” He continues in an undertone, “Your magic gives you away, you know.”

Draco should have thought of that before he came in. “It’s nothing, honest, Potter.” Draco waves off his concern. Looking around, he spots the journal spread open on the desk behind Potter, sitting innocuously on the oak surface. “Will you tell me what’s in there?”

Potter, seeing where is attention is directed, shuts the journal and shoves it away into the corner. “Maybe sometime later,” he says edgily. Draco can’t help but think that the answer that Potter really wants to give him is _never_. “You first, though.” And he fixes his eyes on Draco. He knows that Draco is hiding something, Draco can tell. “What’s wrong with your leg? And why didn’t you mention anything about it before?”

Draco shifts the leg in question away from Potter’s gaze, but he knows it’s not helping matters to hide it. “I didn’t want to tell you.”

“So why come in here?”

“Because I clearly wasn’t thinking, okay?” Draco snaps. He immediately regrets it though, when he sees Potter’s expression close off. “Look, you were injured enough as it was, and then you did… that thing to whatever it was that was wrong with my chest, and I didn’t want to have to ask you to take a look at my leg as well, all right? Besides, it’s not that bad. Granger mopped it up; it’s loads better.” He realised belatedly that he may have been protesting a bit too much.

Potter looks as if he realises this too. “Lie back,” he says, standing from where he sits on the chair. Draco begins to panic mildly when Potter approaches him. “Come on, it doesn’t take much to convince magic to do work it’s already doing.”

“What?” Draco asks, but he lies back against the pillow regardless. He most certainly does not greedily inhale the air as he does so.

“Your magic is already beginning the healing process. It’s simple work to speed things up a bit.” Potter sits next to him on the bed, then carefully lifts Draco’s calf until it rests on his lap. Draco flushes as he does so; Potter is warm, the heat rising off his leg and easing into Draco’s calf, soothing the muscles better than the hot water ever could. Involuntarily, his eyes close.

Potter inches the fabric of his trousers up, and every now and then brushes the skin with his fingertips. Each time he does, Draco feels a little jolt. Merlin, much more of those teasing caresses, and he’ll be in the most embarrassing position since fourth year.

Potter settles his hands on either side of Draco’s calf, encircling the clean line as much as he is able. Gradually, Draco feels the warmth increase until it’s as hot as tea being poured over his skin. Looking down, he watches as the healing is sped up, the skin knitting itself back together.

Potter doesn’t stop until all that’s left is the faintest of lines, running down from just below Draco’s knee, curving to the side to end just above his ankle.

“There,” Potter says, and though he sounds pleased, Draco can detect the exhaustion that wasn’t as pronounced as it was when he first entered. He wonders what doing things like this does to Potter, but before he can ask, Potter is releasing his leg. The warmth remains though, seeping into Draco as if Potter’s magic remains wrapped around it.

Potter stands and looks back at Draco. “I don’t think you’re about to make it back up to your room,” he says. “Stay here, I’m going to go down to the kitchen and grab some breakfast.”

Draco feels a little bereft that Potter’s just going to leave him here. It looks as if Potter would appreciate nothing more than to get some sleep himself, but he still offers his bed up to Draco.

Draco opens his mouth to say that Potter _could_ stay here if he wanted; it is possible to enlarge the bed with magic, if that’s what he’s worried about. But Potter is already lifting his book from the corner of the desk and heading towards the door. He looks back just before he shuts it and says, “You really look like you need some rest, Draco. And in a proper bed this time, not at a table.”

Draco is left with that, the snap of the door, and the scent of Potter from the bedclothes. In all actuality, it may be one of the best mornings he’s had in quite some time.

* * *

Draco wakes slowly, and for the longest moment, he’s not sure what it is that woke him. He lies still, listening to the creak of the house and reaching out with his senses. He shifts just slightly, burying his nose in the pillow and breathing deeply. He can’t quite place the scent – he’s still too groggy for that – but he knows it’s distinctly Potter. Even the cheap smell of the shampoo can’t hide it. He smiles.

As he shifts on the bed, there’s a noise from across the room. Draco shifts in order to get it into his line of sight, and sees Potter slumped over the desk. _Hypocrite_ , Draco thinks fondly.

He pushes the sheet off and stands, only swaying a little before his balance comes back. He approaches the desk silently, looking over Potter’s shoulder to examine his face. It’s pressed against the open pages of the little book, and his hand still holds a loose grip on his Muggle pen. Black hair falls across Potter’s features, and Draco’s fingers twitch in a desire to brush it away.

His face is pale, Draco realises, his eyelashes dark as they lay on his cheek. A little too pale, in Draco’s opinion. Draco wants nothing more than to carry Potter back to his bed, lay him down on the mattress and brush his hair from his face, maybe take his hand and watch him dream. But Draco still isn’t sure if Potter is a light sleeper or not. Would he notice if Draco spelled him into a deeper sleep so he was sure Potter wouldn’t wake? It’s a bit too risky, Draco thinks, and he settles for watching Potter’s lashes flutter.

Potter turns his head, burrowing into the crook of his arm on the desk. As he moves, he inadvertently reveals a small patch of the book beneath his head. Draco is able to read just a small amount of the passage. He’s torn, though; Potter obviously doesn’t want to share it just yet, but at the same time, Draco has to wonder if he’d ever get another chance.

Draco leans forward a little, peering over Potter’s shoulder, and reads what he can. As Potter is still obstructing a bit here and there, it makes for difficult reading, and he tries to piece it together.

‘ – _room is dark and cold, and I’m back in that body, the one with the … cowers before me – him, I’m sure, for it can’t possibly be me, that’s been established – he’s angry… says something about how he … trusted… but why? But that’s been answered already, because apparently, I’m_ – ‘

But what Potter was, Draco never finds out. For at that moment, Potter stirs, and Draco has to jump back a little so it’s not obvious that he was intruding.

Potter blinks; the pen falls from his grip as he lifts his hands to rub them over his face, then up and over into his hair. He looks down at the book before him, his hands falling to rest on either side of it on the desk. He heaves a sigh and darts a glance over to the bed, where Draco should still be sleeping. He starts though, when he finds Draco standing nearly behind him.

“Oh,” he says, and hurriedly closes the book. Draco’s right then; Potter doesn’t want him knowing what it holds. Which just makes him want to know about it even more. That small tantalizing glimpse he got into it appeases his thirst for information, though… for now, at least.

Draco gives a small quirk of his lips. “Thanks for lending me your bed,” he says, “but I think you need it back. You don’t look like you’ve had a decent sleep for a few days now.”

Potter shakes his head and stands. His green eyes are bright, and Draco can’t work out what emotion is churning in them. Potter clears his throat before he speaks. “Hermione said that she’d talk to Dumbledore today,” he says, somewhat hesitantly. “She sent me up here to ‘keep me out of trouble’.” His face twists, and Draco can just imagine how Potter feels being left out of it again, not having a say in this as well. Draco feels a small pang in his chest, and he winces sympathetically.

“What do you suppose will happen?” Potter asks in a hushed voice, as if he’s asking about information on a forbidden secret.

Draco shrugs and looks out the grimy window over Potter’s shoulder. “Can’t say for sure.” Draco has his theories though, and even if they don’t match up exactly with Dumbledore’s plans, he’s sure he can work around them, make sure that he can at least tag along, even if it’s just from a distance. There would be an uproar if Dumbledore decided to allow Draco to accompany Potter. Chances are, it’s even riskier to follow them.

Potter sits down heavily at the desk, dragging the book towards him. He plucks a few of the Muggle bands off of the desk as well and wraps them around the cover.

Draco raises an eyebrow and sits back down on the bed. “You can use magic for that now, I’m sure,” he points out.

Potter flushes a little and says, “I know, it’s just habit is all.” But he throws a quick glance at Draco as he rummages in his pockets for his wand, taps the cover of the book and mutters spells under his breath.

Draco snorts. “Getting into the habit, then, are we?”

Potter gives an amused roll of his eyes and says, “Well, I have to, don’t I? Might as well start a good habit early.”

Draco stares at the book in Potter’s hands until Potter pushes it into the bag he has at the base of the desk. Once it’s hidden from view, Draco looks back up at Potter to find him staring back at Draco, a small furrow etched into his brow. “You’re never going to stop wondering what’s in it, are you? You’re not going to let up until I tell you.”

Draco shifts a little, guiltily wondering if Potter can see from his magic – aura, Draco can’t help but think of it as – that Draco has already gotten a tantalizing bit of info from it. He decides that if he doesn’t think about it, Potter can’t tell, so he wipes it from his mind. “I suppose it’s not in my nature,” Draco says, fighting down the _will you ever tell me?_ he wants to ask.

Potter is silent for a while. “There’s nothing much in it,” Potter says softly, so quietly Draco’s not sure if he’s heard him at all, really. “At least, I didn’t think it was that important in the beginning. I had another one just like it,” he says, and his voice takes on a slightly nostalgic tone. “Back when I still lived with my aunt and uncle. Once my uncle found what it contained, though, he burned it. Probably for the best,” Potter says, a tad sour.

“What–” Draco has to stop speaking in order to swallow before he is able to continue, “what was in the book?”

He almost – _almost_ – regrets asking. Potter looks a little disgruntled, as if he’s been forced back to that day by Draco’s question alone. But then Potter answers him, and any wrong feelings he had are dispersed.

“Dreams,” Potter answers shortly, looking at his hands as they clench together between his knees. He sounds as if every word is being dragged out of him as he continues, “I’ve had a lot of odd dreams. I thought it best to keep a record of them, dates and all. For a while, it was just one single one, repeating itself over and over.”

He looks up at Draco, sighs and runs a hand through his hair quickly, then looks off to the side. It’s as if he knows that Draco is not about to let him off that easily.

“It was about a flying motorbike for the first while. It started calm, and only got more… intense as time went on. By the time I was twelve, I considered them nightmares.”

“How much was lost when the first journal was burned?” Draco asks when Potter pauses.

Potter shakes his head. “Only three or four, mostly ones that have been repeated, or are similar to others. I remember them still, though. I don’t _need_ to have them written down, it just helps with my focus.” He grimaces. “Vernon found it early on. I learned to hide the next better the second time around.”

Draco knows he’s treading uncharted territory, but he asks anyway. “And your uncle burned it?” He can’t think of any conceivable reason for someone to burn a book that only held _dreams_.

Potter’s face darkens as he recalls what must have been some dark days. “Let’s just say that relations between them and me have never been friendly. They never mentioned or answered any questions on my parents, which now makes me think it has to do with magic. They like the version of ‘normal’ they hold, and anything outside of it is shunned.”

Draco can’t understand this concept. Shun magic? Stupid, ignorant Muggles. Why choose to ignore something that could potentially change your life, make you see things in a different way? It’s a new understanding; most people would love to be able to get the insight into the inner working of magic. They don’t know what is in front of their very faces.

“Dudley, my cousin,” Potter begins, tearing Draco from his thoughts. Potter’s eyes are unfocused, as if he’s seeing scenes of long past play out before him all over again. “He – well, we didn’t get along. He and his friends were kind of rough.” Potter says it in such a way that Draco thinks it’s an understatement. “There was one time where he threw something at me. I don’t know what it was, maybe some time of acidic container or something, but he was always pulling stunts like that. It… exploded when it hit me and sent me back into the concrete of the street. When I woke up, I was in a clinic and had lost my vision.”

Draco stares at him, aghast, and wondering how such a thing could happen, what sort of family Potter was put with. “Over time, though, it got to be more like this, the way it is now.” Potter waves a hand before his eyes to indicate what Draco has taken to thinking of as magical vision.

“So the magic was helping you heal,” Draco says, his brow furrowing a little as he thinks this over.

“It’s always been a sort of protecting presence, I guess,” Potter says, and shrugs, as if he’s uncomfortable with the conversation. Draco can hardly blame him. He feels a hot surge of anger, like a slow boil that’s reached its limits.

He finds himself staring at where Potter has placed the book in the bag, wondering how many secrets are kept in there. Potter catches him staring and says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “Maybe I’ll let you read it someday.”

Draco looks up at him, stunned, expecting to find that Potter isn’t really serious. He _does_ look serious though, if a bit nervous and frightened. Draco knows that if he’s ever given the chance to read this book, see Potter’s unconscious thoughts, that it would be quite the honour. It’s obviously something Potter’s not about to share lightly.

It’s as if Potter senses how much weight Draco is applying to this; it is this, Draco thinks, that lets Potter know that Draco isn’t going to abuse Potter’s trust, whenever he does decide to give it freely. Potter nods, and quickly glances off to the side, as if his acknowledgement is something he doesn’t wish to dwell on for long.

“I have training,” he says. “Have to head off to the room.”

Draco nods and watches as Potter moves towards the door. Just before he opens it, Draco says, “Mind if I come with you?”

Potter looks back at him, surprised, and says immediately, “Of course not!” Then he frowns and says, “I – _should_ I mind? You’ve been a big help before.”

Draco grins and stands, shaking off the lethargy that persists from his sleep. He follows Potter up the stairs until they come to the room in which he and Granger and other members of the Order have spent time training.

It’s empty when they enter, but that’s no problem. Draco decides to take him through some spells, help him with others that seem a bit difficult to do still or that he needs more practise with. Potter follows him quickly, picking up some easily and others he frowns at.

“Why would I need to learn how to make birds erupt from my wand?” Potter asks him.

“Distraction method. Come on, Potter, think it out! If you’re getting chased or you’re risking losing the battle, you need a back up plan, something to give you the upper hand. Your opponents won’t be going easy on you, either.”

Potter releases an exasperated breath, but nods and tries the spell again. A colourful array of birds shoots out of his wand, squawking loudly and zooming from one end of the room to the other. Draco turns them into snowflakes when they approach him, and they melt once they reach the carpet.

Granger comes in just as the last snowflake reaches the carpet. “Oh good,” she says, “You’re already here.” Spotting Draco across the room, she continues, “I spoke with Dumbledore. Something has come up, so he won’t be able to meet with us right now. It should have calmed down in a day or so.”

Draco gives a quiet, disbelieving snort and moves away from the wall. “Right,” he says. “Perhaps it’s time for me to go. You two do what you do best.” He gives Granger a slow wink and pulls the door closed on her surprised look.

* * *

Draco hears movement from the landing below, then the slow steps as someone climbs the stairs. He throws a curious look over at the door, and the hallway beyond, but it’s more likely that it’s just someone heading upstairs for bed. When there’s a knock on his door, Draco stands abruptly and opens it.

Granger stands on the other side, her face pink with excitement and hair pulled back from her face. The odd strand still slips free, though, hanging around her face in small bushy curls. “Dumbledore is here. He wants you down in the kitchen with us,” she says without any preamble.

Draco is still for a moment, stunned a little at how quickly this all has begun to happen. If they can finally get a move on… and that he’s allowed to join….

Granger turns to head back down the staircase, waving for him to follow. Draco doesn’t hesitate as he follows her downstairs and to the kitchen.

The first person he sees is Potter, hovering uneasily just inside the door. Dumbledore is standing at the head of the table, the post he usually takes. Weasley is at the table as well, looking half asleep and as if he’s not sure why he’s there. His freckles stand out on his face, and he eyes the books that are spread out on the table with suspicion.

Granger takes a seat next to Weasley, leaving two empty seats on the other side. Gently, Draco nudges Potter towards the other side of the table, on Dumbledore’s left. Potter eases down slowly into the chair, looking from one person to the other.

Dumbledore clears his throat, then shoots a series of spells towards the door. Raising his wand in an arc over his head, he draws the spells that exist there over to surround the entire room, enclosing them in a bubble of privacy. Draco feels a shiver run down his spine.

“What you hear in this room must never make it to another,” Dumbledore says in an ominous tone. With a few simple words, he’s guaranteed that their attention is solely focused on him. He centres his attention on Potter, his blue eyes piercing behind his spectacles. “You already know what must be done; I trust that you know what it is exactly you have to do, what you alone can do.” He returns his gaze to include the rest of them, one by one, saying, “But you are not going to do it alone.”

Draco refrains from tapping his fingers on the table in order to make Dumbledore get to the point faster. “I believe that over the course of your time here, you’ve gotten along with these few individuals the best. Upon inspection, it’s clear that something exists between each of you that brings out strengthened characteristics in another.” He fixes his attention on Potter once more and asks, “Do you trust them?”

Potter looks a little hesitant to answer the question. He shifts, and gives a faint nod. When he looks over at Draco, it looks as if he did so without knowing it. Draco thinks that Potter’s second nod is a bit firmer; he says, “Yes.”

Dumbledore gives a nod, as if he had expected nothing less. “I’m leaving this task to the four of you. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to distract the Death Eaters and Voldemort” – both Draco and Weasley flinch, but Draco recovers quicker– “from finding out that you’ve gone missing. They’ve been keeping a closer watch, now that they know you are back.” He nods at Potter, who shifts a little in his seat. “We’ll keep them distracted, giving you more time to work on accomplishing your goal.”

“But – but Professor,” Granger asks, and Draco half expects her hand to be raised in the air as she voices her question. “What is it we’re supposed to do?”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle in that fashion it seems only he can achieve. “That, Miss Granger, is what I am about to explain.

“Voldemort is only alive through the Darkest of magic. Horcruxes,” he says, and looks at them expectantly, as if drilling the word into them, making sure that they never forget it. “Several pieces of his soul that he has detached from his own, encasing them in objects, and hiding them. They tie him to life, make it so that he is unable to be killed completely until they are destroyed.”

From within his robes, he pulls out a thin, tarnished gold band. The stone it holds is cracked, and though the sound it makes when placed on the table is small, it rings through the room. Dumbledore also withdraws an ink-stained and charred book, stinking heavily of burnt paper and ashes. “These are the Horcruxes we’ve managed to destroy at this point. I’ve long suspected that Nagini is another.”

“But,” Granger speaks up, “wasn’t Nagini caught in the battle with Fawkes, in the flare?”

Dumbledore nods at her. “Phoenix fire is among the most powerful methods to destroy them.” He taps one of the books with a finger. “There are more details in here; you’ll need them.” Granger’s eyes lock on the book.

“It’ll be your job to locate the rest of these items and destroy them. Everything you need should be here.” He indicates the texts he has on the table. “For now, just concentrate on finding them. Once found, head back here or to Hogwarts, and we’ll destroy them.” Draco leans forwards, closer to Potter as he tries to make out what the cover of the books say.

“I have all the extra information you should need in here.” Dumbledore indicates one of the leather bound books. “There’s not enough time to go through it at the moment. Within it are also possible locations that I think Voldemort could have hidden them; start with those.”

Granger picks up the larger of the books and turns it over in her hands. It’s old and looks as if it’s about to fall apart at any second, but she handles it with a dexterity that shows she knows what she’s doing. The title of the book is faded, and in a language Draco isn’t quite sure is real or not. Granger looks fascinated, though.

“Thank you, Professor,” she says, taking the other text as well. Potter reaches over and takes the one Dumbledore has indicated houses his theories and information on the Dark Lord. He leafs through it slowly, and Draco wonders if he’s able to read it in the same way he does that of his own book. What does he see when he looks at the writing? Draco can’t ask him now, though, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try at a later date.

Dumbledore clasps his hands together before him. His eyes are still piercing as he surveys them, as he says, “I wish you the best of luck. We’ll be attempting the raid in four days’ time; you may use between now and then to ensure you have everything you need. I believe it would be best if you departed in the dark of night.”

He leaves the room with a last swirl of purple robes, but the silencing wards remain. “I suggest you also take this time to put a plan together,” he says from the doorway, then closes the door softly. The wards hum through the silence of the room.

If Draco had had a choice, he wouldn’t be working closely with either Granger or Weasley. Granger might be okay, though, considering their discussion from only a few days ago. Weasley’s a bit rash, Draco thinks, and they’ve never gotten along and probably never will; it hasn’t been aided by their family history, either. So Draco can’t help but see a problem at every turn.

Potter makes a soft noise beside him, and when Draco opens his eyes, it’s to see that Potter has passed him the small book he had taken under the table. He takes it slowly, placing it carefully in the folds of his robes, making sure it’s securely tucked away.

Granger clears her throat and says, “He’s right; we should take this time to arrange a plan. Particularly as we’re not terribly comfortable working together, yet. And so we’re not stumbling through this blindly.” Draco thinks this is more for his benefit, seeing as how he’s the only one who hasn’t worked closely with either Granger or Weasley for any length of time. He gives a reluctant nod.

Granger is just about to open her mouth when she looks over at Potter. Draco follows her gaze and immediately takes notice that whatever amount of sleep Potter had managed to grab on his desk wasn’t nearly enough. His face is still far too pale, the green of his eyes a little too bright. He looks as if he’d be happy to fall asleep at the table in a minute and consider it the best surface to do so.

Draco stands, his hand wrapping itself around Potter’s arm just above the elbow and bringing him up as well. He looks across the table at Granger and Weasley and says, “I’m sure we can finish this when all of us are here mentally?”

Weasley frowns at where Draco has his arm around Potter, but Granger nods and gives Potter a sympathetic look. “Meet back here at eleven,” Granger says, as Draco hauls Potter towards the door, the wards snapping as they pass through the entry. He can hear Granger and Weasley beginning to talk until the door shuts behind them, cutting them off and leaving them with the silence of the house.

“You don’t need to drag me, you know,” Potter says sullenly. Draco ignores him and climbs the staircase, Potter following close behind. When they get to Potter’s room, Draco puts up his own silencing spells again. They’re not as powerful as Dumbledore’s, but they would be just as hard to get around.

Potter sinks down onto the bed and rubs his eyes, and Draco can’t help but be reminded of a young lost boy. He takes the journal from within his robes and asks, “Are you able to read this?”

Potter is silent for a moment before he looks up at the book. “No,” he admits. “The ink doesn’t hold enough magic for me to be able to. It’s far too faded. I’m not used to it.”

Draco had thought as much. He opens the book and flips through it slowly, trying to make what he can of it. Dumbledore’s narrow writing covers nearly every page, accompanied by the odd drawing of a relic. Draco frowns.

He looks up to see that Potter has lain down on the bed, curled up on his side facing the wall. “Get some sleep, Potter,” he says softly, and he can almost imagine that Potter has already drifted off. “I’ll read through this in the meantime.”

Potter makes a soft noise and burrows deeper into the bed. Draco locates the sheet at the foot of the bed, pulls it out of the tangle it’s in, and covers Potter with it. He takes the time to trail his fingers over Potter’s shoulder before he draws back, silently reprimanding himself. Potter doesn’t move though, already deep asleep.

Draco takes a seat at the desk, putting the book down and letting it fall open to the first page. Tearing his eyes away from Potter’s sleeping form, he forces his mind onto the subject at hand, trying to glean anything he can from the book’s depths.


	4. Deception

Draco closes the book with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose to ward off a headache. The sun had set long ago; the small ball of light he had conjured hovers over the top of the desk, dim enough so as to not wake Potter, but bright enough to allow him to read.

He had never realised how messed up this war was until he had read the contents of this book. It just further solidified the Dark Lord’s insanity. Splitting one’s soul… Draco couldn’t imagine.

The chair creaks a little as he rests back into it, staring at the innocuous little book that rests before him, no hint of its contents existing on the outside. He glares at it for a moment, if only because it is a messenger of bad news.

Draco looks back over to the bed, something he had made a habit of doing every five minutes or so. Potter’s no longer curled up on his side; he’s kind of spread out, his head turned to the side, hair falling over his face in a black waterfall, his mouth partially open. His calm breathing has lulled Draco a little, soothing him after reading a particularly disturbing entry.

Draco knows he doesn’t completely have all the facts; there are holes in the entries, from where either Dumbledore intentionally left something out or he just doesn’t know. Draco wants to lean towards the former. He hopes, though, that Harry is able to understand those hidden meanings that were mentioned, but not fully explained – if only because Dumbledore has taken him aside throughout his stay. He wonders what they cover in those meetings.

As much as he loathes the idea, he knows he should wake Potter and talk with him about the contents of the book. But Potter looks entirely too peaceful to disturb and is in dire need of a good night’s rest. Draco, too, wants nothing more than to return to his own room and sleep the rest of the night away. After all, who knows how much rest they’ll be getting in the weeks to come?

Draco stands and creeps over to the bed, the book clenched tightly in one hand. Potter’s shoulder is warm when Draco reaches out and gently shakes it. It’s hard to pull back after Potter’s eyes have fluttered open, and Draco just wants to crawl into the bed and curl up next to Potter’s sleep-warmed body. But Potter mumbles something incoherent and sits up, bunching the sheets in his lap. Draco follows his movements and beats down that urge to smooth Potter’s hair down for him.

“I read this cover to cover,” Draco says to distract himself, and holds up the black book. Sitting down beside Potter, he opens it up to the first page. “I tried to tinker with the ink, trying to make it so that you could read it yourself. Did it work?”

He shows the pages to Potter, who takes the book slowly and furrows his brow. Eventually, he looks up at Draco, looking a little more awake now. “How long did this take you to do?”

Draco shrugs. “Not too long,” he lies. “It’s worth it if you can read it as well.”

Potter nods absently and returns his attention to the book, flipping over to the next page. As he goes through it, Draco tries his best to summarise what he had managed to glean from it.

“Dumbledore goes into depth about the Horcruxes that still need to be found. It’s written here,” Draco leans over and turns forward a few more pages for Potter. Potter allows him to, his eyes skimming the narrow text as it flips past. Draco points to the paragraph in question and says, “Some sort of cave that the Dark Lord was taken to as a boy. I don’t get the significance of it, but I thinks it’s been proven that the Dark Lord is pretty mental as it is.” He shrugs.

Potter looks over at him, and it strikes Draco that they are sitting quite close to one another. “You call him the Dark Lord. Why not Voldemort?”

Draco draws back with a shudder. Potter doesn’t look as if this is a subject he’s going to drop right away, and Draco doesn’t know why he’s so reluctant to explain. “My – my father,” Draco forces, “is an adamant supporter. When I still lived at home, he used to talk a lot about the Dark days, went on about the war and Mudbloods this and Muggles that. I got tired of it, and didn’t agree with a lot of it after a point.” He cringes. “I did for the first few years, though. Until I encountered the – Vol – the Dark Lord himself, and decided it wasn’t worth it.”

Draco couldn’t find it in himself to look at Potter. He knows he’s not his father – couldn’t possibly be, but it’s still his _father_. A child’s role model. He doesn’t want Potter’s opinion of him to be tainted by his Death Eater father. “I thought for sure he would force me to join, so I panicked. At fifteen, I had had enough; I went to Dumbledore before term ended. I haven’t seen him since.”

Potter keeps his eyes on the book in his hands, but Draco doesn’t think he’s reading anymore. “You’ve seen him, then? Volde – the Dark Lord?”

Draco guffaws. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ll be fine if you say his name.” At least, he hopes so. He’ll have to remember not to flinch – not noticeably, anyway. All traces of mirth disappear though, when Draco remembers Potter’s question. “Yeah, I did. When I was eleven. In the Forbidden Forest during First year.”

Potter’s face is open, and that light of curiosity comes back into his eyes. Draco knows that at this point, he’ll be telling Potter the entire sordid story. He sighs and looks at the old wardrobe on the other side of the room. Its handles are a dull bronze, the wood looking as if it’s endured the anger of countless wizards.

“At eleven, I was still heavily influenced by my father. As a result, I didn’t get along with anyone from the other houses in Hogwarts; particularly with Granger and Weasley, for example. Mudbloods and blood traitors, as my father would say.” Draco almost gave a hollow laugh, but decided now wasn’t the time.

He doesn’t wish to bore Potter with the details, though. There were some things that Potter didn’t need to hear about, things that Draco would prefer he doesn’t hear, so he explains the bare minimum.

Draco shivers as the memories come back to him in a flood. He fights his desire to shut his eyes against it, but knows he’s more likely to lose himself in them that way. Instead, he looks down and focuses on where Potter’s hands are folded together over the book in his lap. Draco watches as he runs a finger over the cover absently.

“The Dark Lord was possessing a body. He mentioned something about my father and how he would be proud – had better be proud – that his Lord had chosen to take his son as his new body. Said that I would do well, that he could use me to get close to someone. I don’t know what else he might have said or done. I had never been so happy as I was then to see Hagrid, crashing through the Forest and chasing off the Dark Lord.”

Potter doesn’t speak and Draco has to fight with himself so he doesn’t look up at him. He can picture Potter, though; brow furrowed, maybe a strand of black hair falling into his narrowed eyes. When Potter speaks, he does so slowly, as if he’s trying to slow down his thinking process enough to sort through it.

“Did he seem weak when you saw him?” he asks eventually.

Draco straightens and looks over at Potter. His eyes are narrowed and that stubborn strand of hair is tickling his eyelashes, just as Draco thought it would be doing. “Well, yes,” Draco says. “No one would be drinking unicorn blood otherwise.”

Potter opens the book and flips through the contents. “Possessing someone, you said?” he asks, and Draco nods. Potter nods to himself, continuing to search through the book. Draco doesn’t know exactly what it is he is looking for; the book is all a blur for him at this stage, the entries having all run together. He has some idea though, and leans close to look over Potter’s shoulder as he turns the pages.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

Potter stops on the page detailing the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes, and Draco has to fight a shudder at just the mere thought of them. “I’m wondering if we can use his Horcruxes against him, make it backfire on him or something. Do you think he’s able to feel it when they’re destroyed? Or that we can bind them more to him in a way where when we do get rid of them, they weaken him or make him more vulnerable?” He looks at Draco, hair still in his face and tickling his eyelashes. It’s as if Draco’s the only one who notices, and that makes him long to flick it away even more. But Potter’s eyes are holding that light, the one that shows he’s dead set on discussing this with Draco, and Draco knows that if he gives in to his urge he’ll just end up ruining their concentration.

“I’m not sure,” he says. “I suppose it’s something worth thinking about. But it can’t do much to help now, can it? We need to get the Horcruxes first.”

Potter gives a frustrated noise and shakes his head, dislodging the strand of hair. “And that looks as if it’ll be a problem and a half, doesn’t it?” He holds up the little black book, open to the pages where Dumbledore goes on to explain the possible curses and protection charms the Dark Lord would have in place around his soul cases.

“One step at a time,” Draco says, and stands. The bed creaks a little with the removal of his weight and makes Potter rock a little where he still sits. “We’ve got to discuss a plan of action with Granger and Weasley. I don’t reckon you have any intention of letting them know of your affliction, by any chance?” Draco raises a brow and Potter shakes his head.

“There’s really no need, is there?” he asks, almost as if he’s seeking reassurance. Draco supposes he doesn’t really, but he has no idea why Potter still wants to keep it under wraps. Surely he is able to trust Granger – whom he’s been working with constantly over the last few weeks – and Weasley, who is right alongside with that training.

Potter allows the book to snap shut and he stands as well. He’s a good few inches shorter than Draco, but whereas Draco has a leaner figure, Potter’s shoulders are broader. He’s mumbling things under his breath as he walks towards the door, and as he passes Draco, he notices it’s brief patches of the book’s entries as Potter goes over the important passages. He continues to mutter as they walk back down to the kitchen, his fingers twitching as if describing the passages to himself.

As they approach the kitchen, there’s the sound of voices and Potter tucks the book into his back pocket. It becomes clear though, as they near, that it is just Granger and Weasley. Draco relaxes a little, stepping into the room behind Potter and pulling the door shut, erecting an Imperturbable charm.

“Oh good,” Granger says and sits down in a miniature flurry of robes. “It took you two long enough.” Weasley gives Draco a narrowed eye before he claims his seat once more, his fingers taking up an impatient rhythm on the table.

Potter crosses the room to sit at the top of the table next to Granger and places the book on the table’s surface. “We’ve gotten everything we could from that,” he says, gesturing to the book. Draco, from where he hovers off to the side of Potter’s chair, notices that Granger’s eyes light up on the appearance of the book. Her fingers twitch as if she longs to reach out and flip through the rough paper herself. She restrains herself though, maybe noticing the fact that Potter keeps it close. Potter gives a small smile and pushes it towards her.

“Dumbledore left a few possible locations of where Voldemort could have left a few of them, but nothing definitive,” Potter continues, his hands in his lap and folded tightly together.

Granger turns through the book at a quick pace, eyes darting all over the pages as if speed-reading. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if she could do that by now. “Where did he say they are?”

“Some of his old haunts from childhood days, and he thinks that both Hogwarts and Gringotts could hold one,” Draco says, and leans a hip against the table.

Granger’s eyebrows shoot up. “Hogwarts? And Gringotts?” She says it in a kind of tone that holds a great deal of disbelief. Potter nods at her.

“Dumbledore said that Voldemort is drawn to areas or things of great importance, things that would make him feel like he belongs in the magical world.” Granger sits back and nods, as it begins to make sense to her, and begins reading in earnest.

“I’m surprised Dumbledore has never found anything in Hogwarts before now,” she says.

Beside her, Weasley snorts. “Hogwarts is a pretty big castle, Hermione. It would be easy to overlook something, and if we have no idea what it is You-Know-Who has secreted away, it makes it harder.”

Granger sighs and says, “We’ll have to ask him where he’s looked, if at all, so we’re not going over the same place. Maybe it would be easier to go to a public place to begin with.” At Draco’s sceptical look, she continues in an irate tone, “When the Order attacks, all of the Death Eaters will be drawn to that site. If Voldemort has hidden one of his Horcruxes at the bank, then he’ll have people patrolling the area, security measures, maybe. If they’re drawn away, it would make it easier to get in and out.”

Draco has to admit that her plan has merits. “Gringotts first then? Hogwarts is already full of our support, we can save it for last.”

Granger nods and pulls out a sheaf of parchments from her robes pocket. Draco raises an eyebrow at that, but Weasley hasn’t batted an eye. It’s almost as if Granger pulling quills and ink out of her pockets is an everyday experience, which, considering that this is Granger, probably is.

Draco steps away and leans against the kitchen counter, twirling his wand as they talk out a plan in hushed voices. Granger, being who she is, begins to write her notes, lists of provisions they’ll need and lists of devices and gadgets that would be of use. There’s a knock on the door, and Granger scrambles to get everything together, drying ink and shoving the parchments into her pockets, managing to stuff books into a bag she pulls out of nowhere without damaging them. Draco crosses to the door and once Granger has hidden the parchments, pulls it open.

Dumbledore stands on the other side in violet robes. The edges of his spectacles reflect the light from the kitchen as he smiles at Draco. Draco’s hand tightens briefly on the knob, and then he is backing up to allow room for the old wizard to enter. Dumbledore nods his thanks and sweeps into the room, standing just inside the entrance.

“Harry, if I may have a word?” he asks and gestures over to the other side of the room. Potter blinks for a moment, surprised, before he is standing and crossing to where Dumbledore now stands.

Draco takes Potter’s place beside Granger as she pulls the parchments back out, drawing her quill down the edge and making sure she has everything. Draco keeps an eye on Dumbledore and Potter, watching as Dumbledore places a gnarled hand on Potter’s shoulder and removes something from within the depths of his cloak. Draco squints at it, but he’s unable to tell what it is. Whatever it is, Potter looks at it with wonder and strokes a hand over the surface. He looks up at Dumbledore as he straightens and gives a small smile that Dumbledore returns.

Before he can leave, Granger calls him over, spreading the parchments out on the table. Dumbledore bends over them, sweeping his beard out of the way. Granger’s talking a mile a minute, shooting out times and plans and asking questions that are answered by a nod or a shake of Dumbledore’s head. He points to a particular spot on Granger’s notes and murmurs something to her, but Draco doesn’t hear. He’s not paying them any attention, watching the way Potter’s hand slides across the material of the cloak in his grasp. Weasley’s watching too, Draco sees; he glowers.

He hears Dumbledore reassure Granger that they will have drawn the Death Eaters away when it is time, and then he is gone once more. Potter flops back down at the table and stares sightlessly at the scrubbed surface. The cloak is folded neatly in his hands.

“Harry?” Weasley asks, capturing his attention. “What is that?”

Potter still holds that faint surprised expression, but he responds with, “Something from my father.” His rubs a bit of the material between his fingers, and it might be just a trick of the light, but Draco sees them disappear for just a split second. He comes to the same conclusion Weasley does.

“Hang on,” says Weasley, craning his head to see over the lip of the table. “That… that looks like an Invisibility Cloak.”

Granger’s head comes up to see what Weasley is talking about. Spotting the Cloak, she gushes, “Oh, that’ll be such a big help! Excellent!” And then she is scribbling like mad, line after line of neat, narrow script flowing after the quill as she mutters to herself. Weasley raises an eyebrow at Potter and shrugs.

Weasley quirks a grin, then, and says, “Try it out.”

As Potter unfolds it, he never takes his eyes from how it rolls out, shimmering in waves in a mesmerising way. He stands and swings it over his shoulders, and the effect is instantaneous; from the neck down, Potter is invisible. Potter looks down at himself and Draco wonders what he’s able to see, what it looks like for him.

“Bloody hell,” Weasley says, and effectively breaks the awed air. Potter takes off the cloak and folds it carefully before sitting back down. “Not often you see one that powerful.”

They stay in the kitchen for another twenty minutes to finalize the plans before Granger’s writing slows down and her failed attempts to stifle her yawns make Weasley shoo her upstairs. Potter accompanies her up, the Cloak and journal secreted away in a bundle in his crossed arms. Draco can hear Granger lecturing Potter on the advantages of wearing robes as they ascend the staircase. His attempts to follow them are thwarted by Weasley, who blocks his way to the door.

Weasley crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at Draco. Draco doesn’t bother hiding his irritation, and he sneers a little. “What?” he asks.

“Why’re you always hanging around Harry?” he demands.

Draco knows he has to tread carefully here. It won’t do any good to give Weasley more ammunition against him; it’s common knowledge that the two of them have been at odds with each other since the start of their Hogwarts years. “Maybe it’s because he feels comfortable around me,” Draco hedges.

“I don’t buy it,” Weasley says, his eyes narrowing further. “How do we know you’re not just trying to fool him? Or gain enough of his trust to lure him into a trap? All that Death Eater–”

Draco gives a huff of irritation and cuts Weasley off. “Yes, and I’ve acted so suspicious, haven’t I? Always sneaking around, going out on my own or slipping off during battles, hiding secrets.” Weasley flinches a little at Draco’s tone. “I think you’ll find, Weasley, that upon closer examination, I have done _none_ of those things. I’ve only gone out on missions where there are at least two other Order members; ask your brothers – I’m sure they’ll tell you that I haven’t done anything untoward.”

Weasley shuffles a little where he stands. “Fine,” he spits. “Maybe you haven’t been acting suspicious exactly, but that doesn’t really give me any reason to trust you. How do we know for sure that you’re not taking a leaf out of Snape’s book and acting spy? How can we guarantee that you aren’t going to go the same way as Diggle and turn traitor? That you’re not about to lose your nerve and hand Harry over at the next opportunity?”

Draco gives a slight sneer. “You’re just going to have to take a leap of faith, aren’t you, Weasley? I’m not going to allow Potter to get captured. If anything, trust Granger’s opinion.”

“I still don’t like you,” Weasley says.

“Good,” Draco responds. “I’m not overly fond of you either.”

Weasley’s frown intensifies. “But I suppose if we’re going to go into this, we’ve got to at least get used to working together, yeah? I’m… willing to set aside our differences – for now.”

Draco is silent for a moment. This is the last thing he’s expected to hear from Weasley’s mouth, and it makes him feel a little uneasy. Weasley’s not much known for level headedness – acting rashly seems to be more his thing. Though he’s proven himself to be a good strategist, Draco hadn’t really anticipated having Weasley pull the Better Man card. His relationships as well are a little high strung – especially the one with Granger. Although there was speculation between the Weasley twins of that being more on the sexual tension level.

At the moment, he just wants to fit in a couple of hours of sleep before they are off again. “Fine,” he says, and holds out his hand. Weasley eyes it warily for a moment, as if Draco had attached something poisonous to it, before he reaches out and grips it with his own meaty palm. “But only until the end of the war.”

Weasley nods and has left the room before Draco is able to say anything else, throwing a last glare over his shoulder. Draco rolls his eyes and follows him at a distance to his own room.

* * *

There’s a sharp knock on his door, making Draco jerk and twist around to stare at it suspiciously. He’s able to make out a shadow from under the door, but it’s not until another knock that spurs him into moving. He finds Granger on the other side, holding the leather bound book tightly.

Before he can ask why she’s there, she’s pushing her way past him and leaving him to shut the door behind her, already talking in rapid-fire spurts. “I’ve managed to read this, and I think we need to adjust our game plan. From the looks of it, the Horcruxes will be so heavily protected and warded that he’d know if we managed to break through his defences and get one. So I think we should split up.”

She turns to face him, the light of the room giving her a grim outline and making her appear slightly deranged. The image isn’t helped by the way her hair is hanging around her face in knots, as if she’s twirled the strands so much that they’ve become stuck that way.

“This is…” Draco begins, and casts around for the appropriate word. “Sudden. You want to split up so we have a better chance of getting all of them and catching him off guard?”

Granger nods sharply. “There’s more to consider, too. While there’s a chance that after so long he doesn’t think anyone knows of the Horcruxes, which will make him overconfident and more exposed, I’m not willing to take that chance unprepared. We’ll have to anticipate traps for every one we go looking for.”

Draco pinches the bridge of his nose. “Right,” he says. “Like magical beings and cages that torment you forever. How do you expect that we prepare for traps if we’re not even sure what they are?”

“Expect the unexpected, of course,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing. And of course it is; Draco blames the lack of sleep he’s been getting for not figuring that out.

“There’s another thing,” she says, and begins to fidget. “You’ve read this book?” She holds up the small leather journal, and Draco nods. “Well, it doesn’t cover all the info on Horcruxes. Some of the other books go far more into detail, and it’s… it’s just horrid.” Her face is twisted into a look of pure disgust, and Draco has the impression that whatever she’s read, she would love to forget.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because there are interesting facts, too,” Granger says. “For example, when a Horcrux is formed it not only splits the person’s soul, but also draws in magic around it to fill in the gap. Earth magic. The magic that’s drawn in isn’t as used to a wizard or witch’s magic, so a small war between the two different magics break out. Over time, the magic wears away. Or how–”

Draco stops her before she gets carried away. “I think I get it. Disturbing and interesting, right.”

Granger pouts for the smallest of moments before she starts back up again. She turns away and withdraws a bundle of books from the pockets, unshrinks them, and dumps them on the rickety desk shoved into the corner of Draco’s room. “Have a look at these, at least. I’d have written down notes on it, but that sort of information can’t fall into the wrong hands. After this is over, I’m going to see if there’s a way that we can get rid of the books, instead of just hiding them away.”

Draco stares at the pile she’s left on his desk and at how the dust settles around them. Reading those would not be his first choice during his small bit of leisure time, but he supposes that the new knowledge will be good. He reaches over and lifts one of the covers by the edge, grimacing at the sight of the stained parchment.

“Fine, I’ll read them,” he tells Granger, who has been waiting beside him.

“Excellent,” she says, and Draco thinks he’s able to make out a small edge of victory to her voice. “The top one has most everything you’ll need to know. Basic information on how to make Horcruxes, but it’s more in-depth on what the caster should be aware of, repercussions and how to ward them and the like. I’ll leave you with this, as well.” She leaves the leather bound journal on top of the pile.

Draco sighs and gives a small wave at her as she exits the room, leaving him to wade through information he’s not sure he wants to know.

* * *

The sun has just barely risen when Draco is awoken by the persistent knock at his door. He feels like it had been just a moment ago that he had managed to fall into an uneasy sleep, filled with goblins and Cloaks and random Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products, nightmares of suffocating dark magic and souls.

He cracks his eyes open and rolls out of the bed smoothly, moving to open the door before the knocking wakes everyone on the landing. Granger’s face appears in the crack of the door, and her first words to him are, “Good, be downstairs in ten minutes,” before she is Summoning the books on his desk towards her and sneaking back down the hallway to rouse the next unfortunate.

Draco dresses hurriedly, and checks his pockets to make sure he has everything. He’s not carrying much, but it’s essential that his potions kit remains well stocked, for one. He’d never live it down if he went to grab a potion or herb, only to find the phial empty. And it wouldn’t just be Weasley’s snickering that would haunt him. He double checks that the charms encasing the phials are strong, shrinks it, and places it in his pocket.

Both Potter and Granger are already seated at the table when Draco makes his way down, each eating their breakfasts as if it would be their last. Potter bites at his lip, and he looks incredibly nervous and concerned. Draco joins them in silence; the level of tension that surrounds them rises until it is a palpable force, threatening them with what they are about to do and making it difficult for Draco to keep anything down.

Granger is muttering under her breath, checking her bag constantly to make sure she has everything. Potter’s own beaten rucksack leans against the legs of his chair as he pushes his eggs around his plate. Weasley tromps in a moment after Draco has taken a seat, yawning and scratching at his belly, making his robes bunch.

It’s barely seven when Granger stands and says, “It’s now or never.” Potter rushes to stand as well, scooping up his bag and slinging it over his back before pulling the swath of silvery material over his head.

They make their way to the front door silently, and Draco is just able to hear the first stirrings of various Order members over the creaks of the house. They are scheduled to ambush a Death Eater camp in an hour or so, and it’s essential that the four of them get to Gringotts and in position as quickly as possible.

Granger taps the front door with her wand; the locks slide out of place and the door shudders a little as she pushes it open. The sun peeks out over the tops of the houses that line the street as the four of them spill into the morning, sneak around the back to the alley and prepare to Disapparate. Potter’s hand clenches down on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco turns swiftly into the darkness.

They arrive outside of Gringotts just as the first wizards of the day are beginning to stroll through the bronze outer doors. The goblins that guard them have sullen expressions fixed on their faces, but they pay no mind to those entering. Draco hears Potter shift slightly behind him, making sure that he is still completely covered by the Cloak. He has to remain hidden from the Death Eaters that are sure to have taken up posts in the bank, or are there often. It’s suspicious enough that Draco, Granger and Weasley are here; they don’t need the added bait of the Saviour.

They stroll up the marble steps, Potter keeping close behind Draco as they make their way through the doors. Slightly ahead of them, Granger and Weasley hold a silted conversation, trying to appear at ease. Secretly, Draco thinks that the set of Weasley’s shoulders is bound to give them away, and the way Granger’s hand keeps clenching around her bag. Hopefully anyone looking at them would just attribute the odd behaviour to the fact that Draco is trailing after them.

The bank only has a few goblins along the stretch of counter, with more strolling around the sides and flitting from room to room. There is the odd wizard here and there, some conversing with the goblins and others milling about with their wand hands out of view. It is these ones that Draco keeps his eye on, and hopes that Potter is doing the same.

Draco hovers as Weasley approaches a till and asks for a goblin to take them down to his vault. As he lost access to the Malfoy vault after everything that has happened with his father, and as Granger has no vault, Weasley is their only option for an excuse. The goblin beckons with one long-fingered hand to another that stands off to the side, counting through a pile of gold.

The new goblin sneers as it looks up at them, slides off his stool and gestures towards a door along the far wall. His voice is quite hoarse when he tells them to follow and stay close. Draco keeps an eye on the wizards that are hovering in the lobby, a step behind Weasley and Granger. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that at least two of the wizards watch them closely.

Draco is the last to pass through the door that leads into the dark passage. He is sure to hold the door open long enough to ensure that Potter has been able to slide through, and then ensures that the door is closed firmly behind them. It would be far too suspicious to cast a locking charm on it; the goblins would know that something untoward had been set into motion if they could no longer gain access to the tunnels through the main entrance.

They press together on the narrow platform beside the tracks. A cart rolls to a stop before them before the last echo of the goblin’s whistle has faded. Potter clings tightly to his shoulder as they clamber inside, trying to maintain his balance as they struggle to find room in the small cart and not give Potter’s hidden form away at the same time. The goblin ignores their efforts until they have settled, and then the cart is speeding along the tracks fast enough to propel Draco backwards in his seat and into Potter’s chest.

The ride is much too silent, the whistle of the wind far too loud. Draco’s heart hammers in his chest and his fingers have a white knuckled grip on the side of the cart. He can feel tension from all sides; feels it from where he is pressed against Potter’s chest and from Granger beside him, sees it in Weasley’s back. The only one at ease is the goblin, who is looking incredibly bored.

As the cart begins to slow, Draco watches as the set of Weasley’s shoulders tenses even more. If they were in any other situation, he’d almost find it humourous. As it is, the twisting of his stomach is making it difficult to feel anything that isn’t worry or anticipation.

The Weasley vault is still a fair ways away from anywhere the Dark Lord would have hidden a piece of his soul; the vaults here aren’t nearly as well protected as the ones further down. It is those vaults that they are sure he has chosen to use, as the security measures are much more advanced. It also limits the number of Death Eater vaults that need to be searched – for surely it is the vault of a close supporter that houses the Horcrux, as he would be lacking his own.

Before the goblin has the chance to clamber out of the cart, Weasley has his wand pressed to the goblin’s throat. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he says, “we have another destination in mind.”

Draco rolls his eyes at Weasley’s back; there’s not a deceptive or malicious bone in the Weasel’s body. Though he can be cruel, Draco thinks it is mostly just his temper flaring up. Asking politely isn’t going to get them anywhere, and Weasley’s wand is doing nothing more than playing the role of a useless stick.

Draco reaches out and yanks on Weasley’s sleeve, drawing his wand away from the goblin’s throat. The goblin sneers and prepares to snap his fingers; Draco knows that if that happens, their chance has gone out the window. He latches his hand around the goblin’s fingers, and says in a low voice, “Take us as deep as you can go, to the high level vaults.” Acting on a hunch, he adds, “To the Lestrange’s.”

“You think I would do that?” The goblin’s sneer hasn’t left his face, and it only looks as if it’s gained strength. Draco can match his sneer though, twisting his lips and allowing that promise to enter his eye, the one he had picked up from his father all those years ago, the one that is capable of making a naïve wizard quail. While the goblin shows no sign of caring, Draco can still detect that small trace of nervousness.

“Yes, I think you will,” Draco says, raising his wand and murmuring under his breath, “ _Potentia_.”

The goblin’s face tightens and then smoothes out, his sneer disappearing only to be replaced by a patient expression. “Fine,” he snaps, at odds with the calm look gracing his face. He turns to the front of the cart once more and urges the cart to propel them further down into the caves. Draco releases a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

Granger leans closer to him and whispers hotly in his ear, “What did you do to him?”

Draco turns his face just enough so he is able to see her out of the corner of his eye. “Modified Imperius curse – old family charm.” He sneers at the thought of what his father would think about him using such curses when he isn’t worthy enough to do so. “While not quite an Unforgivable, you’re bound to have more success with it. It hasn’t been banned because it was never recognized – everyone just assumed it was the Imperius curse.”

Granger still looks uneasy. “Do you think he would have taken us further down otherwise?” he hisses at her. “I do not think we are quite ready to turn back, do you?”

Granger sits back and Draco is just able to catch her, “I may not like it, but…” before she murmurs herself into silence.

The remainder of the ride is just as tense as it has been before, but the air is cooler down here, staler as they speed through the tunnels. Draco begins to doubt their escape from the twists of the tunnels. How do they know this will work when it’s never worked for anyone before?

Out of the gloom ahead of them rises a mass of gold that glints as the lights that bob along with the cart fall on it. The mass unfurls and gives a bellowing roar, sending a shudder down Draco’s spine. It seems to cower though, as the screech from the cart’s wheels ring through its ears. It settles for glaring at them, the long neck twisting as it follows their slowing path; Draco hears the drag of steel, and watches as the dragon begins to crawl towards them, its eyes alert, nostrils flaring as it smells the air. A low, constant growl hums through the air that Draco feels to his bones.

The cart stops not ten feet away from the beast. Weasley eyes it cautiously as he helps Granger out from the cart, but the goblin does not look bothered in the least. He hobbles onto the platform, his movements a little jerky until he stops a few strides away from the cart and clasps his hands behind his back. Draco follows them out of the cart; the cold from the stone seeps in through his boots and the rumbles from the dragon make it feel like he is constantly shuddering. There’s a muffled thump behind him and the shift of rock as Potter clambers out of the cart as well, a little clumsy after being shoved in the corner for too long.

“What makes you think it is this one?” Granger’s voice, spoken in a harsh whisper that is nearly drowned out by the dragon, still manages to sound out of place, too loud.

“All you have to do is examine the relationship between the Dark Lord and the Lestranges, and you have your answer,” Draco says. He can’t bring himself to say ‘Aunt Bellatrix.’ He wants no connection.

His palms are sweaty, clamped down around his wand as he strides forward, giving the dragon a large berth. The rumble rises to an almost unbearable level, but the dragon moves no closer. Draco glances down at its feet and sees the bright silver chain around its ankle; there is still a large amount of slack – surely there is enough to allow it to bar their way? Shouldn’t it be pushing them back with fire, at the very least? Draco’s insides twist and his stomach feels as if it is filled with lead.

Granger keeps shooting the dragon speculative glances as the three of them creep forwards. Draco has no idea where Potter has moved off to. Draco gives a small twitch of his wand and the goblin moves forwards as well, starting off towards the vault entrance. Draco holds his breath.

From the corner of his eye, Draco sees Potter’s head appear just as the goblin strokes a long finger down the centre of the vault doors. Draco turns to him, the clicks and whirs of the door as the locks release echoing alongside the continuous growl of the dragon. Potter’s face is white, and he shouts out just as the door opens, “It’s a trap!”

Granger’s voice is full of panic as she spins to him and screeches, “ _What_?” Draco’s eyes, though, have locked on the vault as the door opens, and the dark shapes that spill out of it. Weasley grabs Granger’s elbow and draws her back, erecting a quick shield before the first spell has even been shot at them. Draco curses and throws up another.

There are about five of them, all looking rather pale and skinny in their voluminous black robes, almost as if they have been in that vault for awhile now. Despite their starved outlook, they let loose a nasty barrage of hexes, and it is all Draco, Granger and Weasley can do to hold them off as they back up towards the cart.

The roar of the dragon gets Draco’s attention, and he spots Potter running his hand through the air before its lowered snout. There’s a faint light in the air before Potter’s hand, as if it’s brushing over a ward or barrier, and Draco realises that it had been erected to keep the dragon away from the vault, away from those hidden inside of it.

There’s an ear-splitting crack, and the barrier shatters. The dragon roars again and rears back, away from the sound and the reverberation of the shield breaking. Potter darts forwards, and Draco is just about to scream at him when he is interrupted by the brush of a spell against his cheek, forcing his attention back to the Death Eaters.

Both Granger and Weasley are fighting as hard as they can, deflecting the spells aimed at them as they edge backwards. Draco can’t find it in him to worry about wherever the goblin has run away to. He’s far too concerned about deflecting spells and making sure that they are going to get out of this alive.

Two of the Death Eaters break off, going over to where the dragon is crouched, and to where Potter is hunched over its ankle. Draco’s mouth runs dry and he breaks away from Weasley and Granger, wand raised to prevent them from taking Potter unaware.

The lock around the dragon’s leg releases, and Potter takes a step back, hands raised as the dragon eyes him with a white eye. The Death Eaters are closing in, and Draco shoots a stunner at one of them before he has the opportunity to hex Potter, but the spell goes wide. The Death Eater turns, laughs when he sees Draco, and fires off a curse at Draco in retaliation.

The dragon has apparently decided that Potter isn’t worth his trouble, and turns back to face the remaining robed figure, whose entire attention is focused on Potter. Draco watches from the corner of his eye as he duels, watches as the dragon gives another of those mighty bellows and opens its jaws wide. The Death Eater falters; fire spews forth from the dragon’s maw and curls through the air towards them, hot enough that it causes Draco to break into sweat immediately. The Death Eaters scramble away, Draco not far behind as he rapidly back-pedals towards the cart that thankfully still resides on the tracks.

Granger and Weasley have reached it by now, the Death Eaters they had been fighting taking flight after the dragon’s attack. Draco can see Potter running towards them through the smoke and heat waves that remain from the dragon’s fire. The dragon’s belly scrapes across the ground as he chases after the terrified Death Eaters, leaving the rest of them alone. The Cloak hangs off Potter a little as he runs towards them, the silvery material rippling through the air around him.

He all but jumps into the cart, Draco and Weasley pulling him inside by the material of his robes as Weasley screams, “How the bloody hell do you work this thing?” He’s looking furiously at the front of the cart, but Granger raises her wand and waves it in a complicated manner. The cart shoots backwards.

“It should take us back the way we came,” she says loudly to be heard over the whistle of the air past their ears, and the last echo of the dragon’s roar.

“How did they know?” Weasley asks, and glares daggers at Draco. “How did they find out that we would be there?”

“Use your brain, Weasley,” Draco snarls. “Did it look as if they had just gotten there? They’ve been locked in that vault for a while – the Dark Lord probably placed them there as an extra precaution. Worthless Death Eaters, ones he wouldn’t miss if they died in the effort.”

“So, what?” Weasley shouts back. “Was there a Horcrux there or not?”

“I don’t think so,” Potter says, his fingers clutching at the material of his Cloak. He twists and shoves it into his rucksack. “He probably wouldn’t depend on his subordinates to defend a piece of his soul, especially not those who haven’t earned his trust completely yet. It was a trap – the vault had been emptied.”

“So where is it then?” Granger asks, in a voice barely heard, drowned as it is between the squeal of the cart and rush of air.

They don’t have time to even dwell on the question; behind them, another cart barrels into view from a side passage, piled full of the Death Eaters, all lightly scorched, and the goblin. Draco’s heart sinks; surely the Dark Lord hasn’t taken full possession of Gringotts? Not when the goblins refuse to take any side of the matter? There are only four Death Eaters in the cart, but that doesn’t mean that there won’t be more in the building proper. They are far from being in the clear.

Potter turns and deflects the first spell that is aimed at their cart, but the next one slips past and hits the back wheel. Granger screams as the cart sways dangerously. At the speed they are going, they cannot afford to tip over, and not when there is an open abyss on their left.

Draco twists until he also has a clear view of the cart behind them. Both he and Potter deflect the spells aimed at their cart and manage to get off a few spells of their own.

Granger shouts out a warning that they are about to round a bend. Just as the other cart goes out of view, Potter erects a shield in the middle of the tracks. They watch with bated breath as their pursuers round the corner, sending off a horde of spells before both the spells and the cart collide with the barrier. They see the cart spill over, hear a panicked cushioning charm shouted, then nothing as they hurl around another bend. Draco’s heart is still pounding in his chest, and he can’t turn around, can’t look away from the darkness behind them.

They scramble out of the cart before it has even pulled to a complete stop, and as soon as their feet hit the ground, they are running towards the door. Weasley slows before he yanks the door open and stands back for everyone to get through. As he closes the door behind them, Granger shoots a surreptitious “ _Colloportus_ ,” at it and the door seals itself shut.

Before him, both Potter and Weasley are frozen. When Draco looks up, it’s to see that the goblins have been cleared out of the area, and a wall of Death Eaters stand before them, about twenty strong and all holding their wands aloft. Draco’s heart stops.

Just as the first begins to swing his wand upwards to strike, movement rockets itself back into Draco’s limbs. He grabs Potter by the back of his robes and the two of them dive off behind the nearest stall. Weasley and Granger twist off to the side as well, barely escaping the jets of light. Draco hears the laughter ringing off of the marble walls and grits his teeth.

Beside him, Potter peeks around the edge of their stall and fires off a curse. Draco follows his lead, and the Death Eaters dance out of the way, still laughing as if this is a game to them. Draco can see Granger and Weasley attempting to force back the ones that are closing in on them, and Draco fires off a few spells at the ones he can catch unawares.

As he ducks back behind the stall, Potter’s mouth finds his ear. “We need to move,” he says.

Draco knows that the protection that the wood is giving them is short lived, and he nods. “Think you can give us time?” he asks, and Potter nods. Draco turns and manages to capture Weasley’s attention, then gestures over to the counter that stretches along the front of the bank. Weasley frowns, throws off a curse, and gives a tight nod.

The stall that shelters them bursts into flame just as Potter whips out his wand and casts a spell. Draco doesn’t hear what he’s said, but he feels the lurch and hears a chorus of shouts from across the room. He takes a firm grip on Potter’s bicep, yanking him over to the counter. Granger and Weasley are not far behind as they run doubled over across the hall.

Draco casts a look over the counter and sees that the floor at the Death Eaters feet is churning, moving like there is a giant serpent gliding just under the surface and displacing the tiles.

From their position, it’s going to be hard to get out of the building. The Death Eaters stand between them and the exit, and as the floor begins to cease its movement, several find their balance enough to dart off to the front doors. Draco curses and ducks back behind the counter as their attackers begin to fire off spells again. He turns to Weasley and Granger.

“Go to Hogwarts,” he says, in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the spellfire and the straining of the counter. “If he knows that we’re after his Horcruxes like you’ve said, we need to split up now,” Draco says, and looks pointedly at Granger, who nods. They are interrupted by a tremor that shakes the line of the counter, but as soon as Draco gets his breath back, he continues. “We have a greater chance of getting to them if we divide and conquer.”

The Death Eaters fire spell after spell at their marble protection until a particularly well-placed spell blasts a sizable hole through it. Draco rolls to the side, away from the gap that forces them apart once again.

Draco looks back over to where Granger and Weasley are crouched. They are both out of breath, and Granger’s hair has come loose from its knot. Strands hang in her face, sticking to the shallow cut on her cheek. Potter makes a motion as if to dart across the gap, and Draco knows that Potter wants to heal her, that he can see the injury like a vivid red scar of pain in her aura. He holds Potter back, his arm tight around Potter’s waist and tells him, “Later.”

Potter looks at him; he knows that there won’t be a later, but he’s also smart enough to realise that it’s not possible to run across and risk getting hit by the spells that continue to shake the marble.

“Distract them, for just a moment,” he says to Potter, and gestures over the counter.

Potter’s nostrils flair and he snaps back with, “I know what needs to be done.” Before Draco can reply, he is already shooting spell after spell through the gap in the counter, forcing the Death Eaters back. Granger follows his lead and fires off her own series of hexes.

Draco speaks as loudly as he feels comfortable, not wanting to be overheard. “Hogwarts,” he repeats, and Weasley gives a grudging nod. Granger glances over her shoulder at them, before she is once more drawn into battle. A particularly well-aimed spell brings down a robed figure with a scream. “Warn Dumbledore. Try to find the one that should be in the castle. Potter and I will head over to the cave.”

Weasley gives another nod, and opens his mouth to respond. Draco strains his ears to hear him over the sound of the battle at his back, strains to focus on what Weasley is saying instead of Potter’s presence beside him. “We’ll keep them distracted; you two first!” And then he is standing, firing off his own round of curses.

Draco pulls Potter back behind the counter and grips his wrist tightly. Potter looks at him, his green eyes blazing. His face is a little dirty from the dust, a little red from burns. There are already signs of exhaustion around his eyes, and Draco frowns a little, sure they all look about the same. But there is something in Potter’s expression that holds more of a dire quality than what Draco has seen on Weasley’s and Granger’s faces, knows what must exist in his own.

Draco drags Potter up until they are just barely protected by the counter, trying to manoeuvre them into a better position for Apparating. Potter throws a panicked glance over to Granger and Weasley, and Draco shouts into his ear, “They’ll be fine!”

With a quick turn, they disappear. The crack of their Disapparition goes unheard in the battle, as does that of Weasley’s and Granger’s.

* * *

Draco’s ears ring when the tight squeeze of Apparition stops. There is no ringing of spells, no shouted exclamations, no crack of stone and marble. Instead, there is the crash of the sea on rock, and a cold wind that whips their robes about them. He shivers and pulls his robes tighter around him to ward off the cool autumn air.

They have appeared on a long stretch of cliffs that hang over the sea. The grass is dry and brown, and it crunches under their feet as they move. Draco can see nothing when he looks around; there are no trees, no roads or any other sign of life, really.

“Come on,” Draco says, and pulls Potter towards a cluster of boulders not far from where they stand. Potter follows him silently, hunched over in a vain attempt to avoid the harsh wind.

Once they reach the boulders, Potter sits himself down on the ground with his back to one and rummages in his rucksack. Draco circles the rocks for a moment, waving his wand to block the elements and any passers-by from seeing them. The wind ceases to blow through them, instead smacking against the barrier; they can still hear the howl as it rips past them, plays with the water and creates white caps. A few extra flourishes with his wand, and the space in their bubble becomes warmer, the ground a little more comfortable to sit on.

Potter is pulling things from his rucksack, arranging them on the ground before him. Mostly, he pulls out various jumpers and robes that have been given to him by the Weasleys or that he had taken from his own place, and the ever-present book. He’s got both the Dark Lord’s and his own, Draco sees.

Draco sits down cross-legged from him just as Potter pulls out a wrapped package. As Potter unwraps it, Draco sees that it is a small bundle of food, mostly fruits and the odd lump of cheese or bread. Potter shoves his rucksack away and spreads it down over the ground, and pushes it towards Draco.

“Eat,” he says. “You hardly had anything at breakfast.”

Draco raises an eyebrow and points out, “Neither did you.” But he takes an apple all the same. A burst of juice explodes in his mouth as he bites down, runs down his chin and he wipes it away with the heel of his hand. Merlin, if his father could see him now. Draco pushes the thought away determinedly.

Potter shrugs and grabs his own piece of fruit, twisting it around between his palms. Draco waits until he has taken a bite and swallowed before asking him, “How did you get this?”

Potter looks up at him and blinks, his eyes wide. “Oh, er… went digging through the kitchens. Ron showed me down there.”

“Of course he did,” Draco says, and plays with his stem. Weasley’s bottomless stomach is very well known.

He doesn’t comment on it at all, preferring to examine Potter over the small expanse of space between them. Potter keeps his eyes on his hands as they twist the fruit, moving around the single bite that has been taken out of it. His eyelashes are long, Draco finds himself thinking. Then he shakes his head. He shouldn’t be having thoughts like those when it’s just the two of them. Not here, not now.

Potter hasn’t seemed to notice anything wrong, though, so Draco’s not overly concerned. Draco stands and faces the cliff, and the open sea beyond. He moves his arm back, then throws it out, the apple core flying from his hand and through the barrier easily. The wind blows it off course, but it still manages to sail over the edge of the cliff and into the sea beyond.

Potter’s eyes are on him when he turns around. Draco ignores his questioning stare in favour of looking through his pockets. He pulls out a few phials and hands one to Potter. Potter’s fingers are cold when they brush against Draco’s.

“Once you’ve finished eating that,” Draco looks pointedly at the barely eaten peach in Potter’s hand, “drink about half of this.” He taps the phial filled with dark green potion. Potter tips it back and forth, watching the potion slide from one end to the other curiously. “It’s a healing potion,” Draco says. "For those cuts and bruises you’re not telling me about, but that I know you have.”

Potter looks at him as if he is insane, and Draco dares him to deny it. But Potter’s jaw tightens, and he says, “Fine,” before laying the potion down next to his trainer. “What about you?” he asks, and takes another small bite from his fruit.

Draco huffs and picks up the phial from where Potter had placed it. He uncorks it, raises it to his lips and takes a single swallow. Replacing the cork, he returns it to its place before Potter and says, “Satisfied?”

“About as satisfied as I’ll get, I suppose,” Potter murmurs and looks down.

Draco returns to looking through his pockets until he has pulled out a small jar. He lays it down on the grass and folds his arms over his chest, waits until Potter has finished nibbling on his fruit. He waits until Potter has just the pit left, and it sits in the centre of his palm comfortably. It had taken him far too long to eat it, Draco thinks, but so long as he has.

“Here,” Draco says, and he stands, holding his hand out for Potter to take. Potter looks up at him with a furrowed brow, before taking his hand and allowing Draco to pull him up. Draco points him in the direction of the waves that are still being created by the gale and says, “Throw it.”

Potter looks over his shoulder at him, that confused expression on his face that makes Draco just want to – no, he won’t think that. Instead, he encourages Potter and pushes him forward a step.

Potter’s expression changes to one that looks as if he’s about to humour Draco. He shrugs and faces the sea, tosses the pit into the air a bit to readjust his grip on it before he is throwing it out into the open water with all his might.

Draco watches as the pit becomes smaller in the grey skies, before it lands in the tossing water. Any noise or notion that it has been swallowed by the sea is covered by the wind and the continuous crash of water on rock.

“Very nice, Potter,” Draco says. “Good arm.”

“Thanks,” Potter says, and deftly returns to his seat.

Draco points to the phial that still rests on the dry grass. “Drink,” he orders, and Potter looks up at this, exasperated. Clearly, though, he can tell that Draco is not about to let this go, and he scoops up the potion, uncorks it and swallows. Draco gives a satisfied smile and sits down as well.

Draco takes the phial back and replaces it in his pocket for later. He then unscrews the lid from the jar he had removed before, the smell of aloe gently filling their small bubble of silence. Potter all but ignores him, but he still glances over every now and then as he begins to rewrap the food and replace everything in his bag.

“Come here,” Draco says, and scoots forwards. Potter closes the zip of the bag and looks over at Draco, then down at his hand.

“What’s that for?” he asks, eyeing the cream inside suspiciously.

“It’s for your burns,” Draco tells him, and scoots forwards a little more. As Potter doesn’t look inclined to move, Draco will just have to meet him on his ground. With a quick couple of spells, he has both his hand and the areas surrounding the burns cleansed. Carefully, he scoops out a small measure of the cream. He doesn’t take out a lot; he has to make sure he saves some, and this is too precious to waste. He rubs it between his fingertips, then looks at the burns on Potter’s face.

Potter looks extremely nervous. He swallows a bit; his hands clench around the dry grass in his fists and he does not tear his eyes away from Draco’s fingers.

“What is it?” he asks. Potter’s eyes fly up to meet his, and Draco strangles the gasp before it manages to slip past. There’s a storm in Potter’s eyes not unlike the one that rages outside of their barrier.

“It’s just,” Potter begins, and struggles to find the words. Eventually, he huffs out a breath and says, “It’s just that I don’t… touch very much.” His gaze darts off to the side, almost guiltily.

Draco’s brows draw together in a frown. “What do you mean?” He sits back and lowers his hand until it rests in his lap. “We’ve touched plenty of times.” After all, Draco remembers every touch that he’s shared with Potter.

Potter shifts a little, the grass crunching under his weight as he moves. “That’s… that’s different. _You’re_ different.”

Heat raises in Draco’s cheeks, and he feels a small burst of pleasure. Until, of course, he thinks that maybe it’s not a good different that he is. His throat is a little dry when he asks, “What do you mean by ‘different’?”

Potter is seemingly unable to meet his eyes. He looks everywhere but at him; the downward slope of the hill, the far off mountains, back at the spot where they had landed.

Draco doesn’t think he’s about to answer when Potter says, “I don’t normally touch others, or allow them to touch me, really. I don’t know why, exactly, it’s just something I haven’t been comfortable with.” He tears up a bit of grass and throws it away, then meets Draco’s eyes. His own are shadowed, but determined. “But you’re different. I don’t mind contact with you as much. Maybe it’s your magic; maybe it’s the fact that you know about… about my…” he gestures to his eyes, “about me. Maybe it’s because it was you who got me out of the building just as the Death Eaters got there. Or the fact that you took me out to the castle, got me in the air when you knew you weren’t supposed to.”

Draco sits there, slightly stunned and quiet as Potter talks. He doesn’t think he could speak if he wanted to; there’s nothing he can say to what Potter is talking about, no way he can comment.

“It could be a lot of factors,” Potter mumbles. He ducks his chin and steadfastly refuses to look at Draco any more.

Draco just looks at him. Slowly, he lowers the jar and reaches out with his clean hand, hesitates a bit before gently placing it on Potter’s knee. Swallowing past the lump that has risen in his throat, he says, “Thank you.”

Potter blinks. He looks over at his knee, where Draco’s hand rests, and relaxes. “It’s nothing to thank me over,” he says, and looks up, still not meeting Draco’s gaze. “It’s more of a bother than anything.”

Draco gives a forced chuckle. “Are you calling me a bother, Potter?”

Potter’s lips quirk and he says lightly, “Of course.”

And just like that, the heavy feeling that had settled down on them disperses. “Are you going to let me apply this, or would you like to?” Draco asks hesitantly.

Potter eyes his hand warily once more, then gives a small nod. “You can do it.” Then he is moving closer again, and Draco’s hand falls from its place on his knee. Draco gives a small, relieved sigh and raises his slicked fingers again.

Just as he’s about to touch them to Potter’s cheek, he looks past his hand and meets Potter’s eyes. The green of them surprises him, out here in a wasteland of browns and greys and tossed seas. His brows above are dark; there are dark circles underneath.

Carefully, so carefully, Draco rubs the tips of his fingers over Potter’s cheek, rubs the aloe gel over the burns he got from the dragon. Potter’s lashes flutter at the touch briefly, but they stay open in the end, watching as Draco applies the cream gently.

Draco dips his finger back into the jar, then runs his finger down the bridge of Potter’s nose, follows it over onto the other cheekbone, the temple. Potter watches him all the while, but Draco doesn’t find his gaze uncomfortable at all. He allows Potter to look his fill as he covers his fingers again, then strokes them down the length of Potter’s throat, feels the rapid pulse there, a gentle steady rhythm against his fingertips.

“Anywhere else?” he asks softly.

Potter shakes his head. “No, no I don’t think so. My robes are burnt, but I think you got the worst of it.”

Draco sits back and reaches for the lid to the jar. “If you’re sure,” he says, and twists the lid, making sure that the seal on it is tight. He conjures a cloth and wipes away the excess that remains on his fingers.

“Thanks,” Potter says. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know,” Draco says. “But I wanted to. And that is what makes the difference.”

Potter shrugs his shoulders and holds his hands together in his lap, once again avoiding Draco’s gaze. Draco refrains from reaching out and touching Potter again, refrains from lifting his chin.

Instead, he stands and says, “What say you? Shall we try to find that cave?”

Potter looks up at him, the sun lightening his hair when it finds its way out of the clouds. “I suppose,” he says wryly. He stands as well, grasping at the strap of his rucksack and bringing it up with him.

Draco looks around, narrows his eyes and tries to see along the edge of the cliff, tries to see if he can see anything that might end up being the cave in question. “Where do you think it is?” he asks, then thinks a little more and adds, “Can you sense it? Any magic here?”

Beside him, Potter closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. His brow creases, he gnaws gently on his lip and his head twitches to the side. “There’s something,” he says. “It’s faint… but it’s there.” Opening his eyes, he points along the side of the cliff and back the way they came. “Maybe a few hours walk, half a day at most.”

Draco considers. They shouldn’t dawdle about, but he knows that they’re unable to Apparate too close to the cave. For one, the Dark Lord could have erected spells that would warn him of potential enemies getting closer, have wards in place to ensure that there is no possibility of doing magic while within range. Or even, Draco thinks, that the person can’t leave once there, is stuck on the cliff’s side – or in the water, even – until the Dark Lord himself shows up to dispatch them.

“I suppose we might as well walk there,” Draco says thoughtfully. When Potter makes no argument, he raises his wand and casts warming and weather protection spells on his and Potter’s robes, then lowers the shield. The wind assaults them rapidly, running vicious fingers through their hair and pulling at their robes, pushing them towards the sea just out of reach. They cannot feel the cold, but the spells do not prevent them from feeling the force of it.

Together, he and Potter set off in the direction Potter indicated, towards whatever it is the Dark Lord has in store for them.

* * *

Two hours later, and both he and Potter are shivering from the cold, the spells having been long since ripped away by the wind, and Draco’s fingers are too numb to redo them. He had told Potter to save his energy, stated that they might need it for later on, and that they would just have to endure. If anything, the storm has gotten stronger than when they had left, that small hint of sunlight taken away long ago.

Now, they hunker down under an overhanging rock, trying to warm themselves from the autumn chill. Sitting close together, shoulders brushing, Draco grabs at Potter’s hands, holding them tightly between his own.

“What’re you doing?” Potter asks.

Draco snorts and rubs them. “Trying to get them warm, Potter. They look like they’re starting to turn purple.”

“Oh, and like yours aren’t?” Potter snaps. He yanks one of his hands out from Draco’s grasp and covers one of Draco’s. He brings the combined twists of their hands to his mouth and blows hot breath over them, over and over at the fingers that are clenched together. Draco watches as Potter then brings them close to his chest and hunches over them, dragging Draco closer in the process.

Potter releases them for just a moment and mumbles something. He shifts around for his wand and does a kind of wonky swish with it towards the overhang. Draco can almost see the barrier extending down from the rock to meet with the ground, and he can no longer feel the wind whipping at his clothes; his hair stops having a mind of its own, settling down over his forehead in tangles, and Potter’s isn’t much better off. “There,” Potter says, satisfied. He tucks his wand away and grabs at Draco’s hands again, pulling them close to his chest. Draco knows it’s purely for the body heat, but he also likes to think that Potter has other motives.

They’re no longer as cold as they were before, and Draco manages to arrange himself into a more comfortable position against the rock beside Potter without untangling their hands. “Where’d you learn to do that?” he asks.

“Hmm?” Potter says, and settles back against the rock as well, pressed along Draco’s side. Draco can feel him like a hot stripe of fire from shoulder to hip. “Hermione,” he says. “I didn’t have much luck with it before, but I suppose it’s all the magic in the air, the magic from the cave, that made it easier.”

Draco makes a noncommittal noise and leans further into Potter’s warmth. Beside him, Potter yawns hugely, and Draco says, “Why don’t you grab a few moments of sleep? It’s already been a draining day, not to mention whatever it is we have ahead of us.”

“Shouldn’t,” Potter argues. Contrary to his words, he slithers down the rock until he is slouched over, half curled alongside Draco. Draco hesitates for a moment before he rests his cheek on Potter’s own tangled mess of hair.

“Think they’re okay?” Potter asks quietly.

Draco opens eyes he hadn’t realised he had closed; apparently, Potter wasn’t the only tired one here. He blinks a couple more times to restore his vision and asks, “Who?”

“Ron an’ Hermione, of course,” Potter mumbles.

“Oh,” Draco says, then, “I’m sure they’re fine. They’re tough; been through lots. Granger’s not stupid, so they have that in their favour.” Potter doesn’t laugh at his poor attempt at humour, though, just shuffles around a little more. Draco looks down at him and sees that Potter’s eyes have slid closed and his breaths have evened out a little more. He rests his cheek back on Potter’s head, stares out over the raging sea.

Unbidden, memories rise up in his mind’s eye, memories of long past. Memories of his mother, whose face is a little blurry. It’s been a while since he’s seen her; she was removed from his life at an early age, and Draco still does not know why. When asked, his father had always assured him that she was fine, and would Draco mind not bringing it up again? But yes, she is alive, and no, she hasn’t left his father for another man. She’s just… gone for the moment.

Draco wonders if there’s any truth mixed in with the lies.

Draco sighs and rubs his face in Potter’s hair, the strands tickling at his nose. It smells of sulphur and smoke, not at all like how he had noticed Potter smelled before, whenever he had held him tight for Apparating. Potter’s breaths are slow, a counterpoint to the slap of water on the cliff. There’s a warm tingle over his skin, almost like that of fingers, playing with his hair and caressing his cheek.

Draco snaps his eyes open and stands rapidly. His head connects with the rock above, and he falls back to the ground, clutching at his head as it throbs; he moans in pain, blinks back the tears that had risen.

His eyes find Potter, slumped over from where he has spilled from Draco’s rapid ascension. “Potter,” he mutters, clawing his way over to him. He clamps his hand down on Potter’s shoulder, gives it a rough shake. “Potter,” he says, louder this time, shouts it in his ear, really. Potter mutters something and tries to push Draco away with weak arms.

Draco drags him up into his arms, shakes him roughly. Potter’s head flops back and forth, his brows screw up and Draco yells desperately, “Potter, _wake up_!”

Potter’s eyes slit open, and it’s like Draco is able to draw in his first breath. “Why’d you wake me?” Potter mumbles sleepily. “You said I could nab a couple minutes.”

“I know what I said!” Draco says, panicked. “But we can’t! It’s a spell, forces us to sleep. So _wake up already_!”

Potter blinks rapidly, pushes Draco’s hands off of his shoulders and sits up. He rubs harshly at his eye with the heel of his hand, then looks at Draco, his eyes narrowed. They widen rapidly and he says, “Bloody hell.” His eyes dart in the space around Draco, following some path Draco can’t see.

“You see it?” Draco asks, and Potter nods mutely.

“Swirls, kinda like smoke.” He shakes his head, his hair falling into his face. “We must be close, then,” he says and looks further along to where they are headed. Draco sees him suppress a shiver.

“Right,” Draco says, and crawls out from the protection offered by the rock. As soon as he crosses the line of the barrier, he’s assaulted by the gale, and immediately feels more awake. Potter follows him out, still blinking quickly as if to wipe off the last traces of sleep.

“There’s probably a reason the spells failed a ways back,” Potter says. “It’s probably not safe to use any from here on out. He might have had that spell there to assault any wizards or witches that came around here; probably assumed that they would be looking for his Horcrux. And it would be the worst thing to do, right? Take someone’s magic from them.”

Draco hums, and says, “You’re probably right.” It would have been nice to have the spell with them, but it’s too risky, and besides, Potter had said that they were getting close, right?

They resume their trek, stepping carefully over the rocks. Potter stumbles a few times, unable to see the larger rocks that hinder his path, so Draco has a hand out to catch him, steady him when Potter loses his footing. It slows their progress a little, but Draco’s fine with that. They’ve come this far, uninterrupted, so surely it can’t hurt to take their time with this.

Potter’s hand clenches down on his just as they reach the highest point of the cliff, with a sheer drop down into the sea. Draco looks over at him and asks, “Here?” Potter nods and points to a small crevice where the rock seems to fold in on itself. There is a small spot that is darker than the surrounding rock, in and out of sight from the crashing of the waves. It’s a steep climb, and Draco looks over at Potter worriedly.

“Maybe you should stay up here?” he suggests. It’s not that Potter would hinder him, though that’s what Potter seems to think by the way his face darkens. Draco rushes to explain, “It’s a pretty steep cliff. We’d have trouble getting down, and I can’t imagine how hard it would be for you even if you could…” he trails off, unable to find the right word he wants to use.

Potter looks like he’s about either smack Draco one or shake his head in exasperation. “Look,” he says, “Trust me on this? I think I can do something to help that won’t attract the attention of whatever security measures he has in place. If it does, we can figure something else out.” He narrows his eyes at Draco and his features become stony. “But one thing is for sure – I am going down into that cave with you.”

Draco is not entirely sure what to say to that, and he ends up deciding that saying nothing is probably his best bet.

The progress down the side of the cliff is slow, Draco taking the lead and pointing out sturdy footholds for Potter. Draco doesn’t know exactly what Potter is doing. Potter had attempted to explain it as they fought to stay on the rock, but all Draco could understand was that Potter was using the magic that already existed in the air; he wasn’t making his own, and therefore, not tempting the Dark Lord’s spells. As they descend, the spray from the fierce waves ensures they are drenched when they’re not even a third of the way down. The rock becomes slick, and hard to retain a firm grip.

They’re still a far ways away from where Draco can barely see the cave entrance, and he can’t even begin to wonder how they will reach it. It would be impossible to swim through the turbulent waters; could they perhaps chance using a spell this close?

They don’t have to worry though; as soon as Draco’s feet meet the last shelf of rock, the waves begin to calm. There’s a clear path from where they stand to the entrance of the cave that is not affected by the storm that rages beyond.

Potter comes to stand beside Draco as they look out onto the path. “Seems like a challenge, doesn’t it?” he asked. “Like on the off chance that someone did discover his Horcruxes, he’d want them to at least have a chance – or think they had a chance – at destroying him?”

A chill runs down Draco’s back at Potter’s words. It seems like the sort of twisted thing the Dark Lord would do, trying to lure his enemies into a state of comfort in order to catch them unaware.

The water, when they slide into it, is freezing cold, clinging to them and making it feel as if there is no barrier between them and it. If they pause for even a moment, Draco has no doubt that their muscles would freeze up, and they would be dragged down by their water-logged robes.

They strike out for the cave entrance rapidly, making their way through a current that always seems to be pushing them backwards. Draco’s mind screams at him, asks him what he thinks he is doing, swimming through water at this temperature. Draco battles both body and mind, pushing through alongside Potter. Potter has this determined expression on his face that refuses to be eroded by the slap of water.

Draco hauls himself out of the water and turns around to grasp at Potter’s hand, pulls him out as well with a weak yank and Potter’s own heave. They collapse down on the rock, panting for breath and shaking with the cold.

“W-well, w-we can’t really st-stay out here, can we?” Draco asks, trying to string his words together with a mouth that refuses to cooperate. He arches his neck in order to see the cave that lies behind them, looking like the mouth of a giant beast, all teeth and unbeatable darkness.

Potter gives a last shudder and rolls over onto hands and knees, then pushes upwards. “I su-suppose not,” he says, his teeth chattering. His hands curl around the edges of his robes, like he’s not sure if he should rip them off or clutch them tighter to lock in what little heat is left.

By the time Draco is standing in a somewhat upward direction, Potter has the same light in his eyes that had appeared before they attempted the cliff-face. He looks up at Draco from his kneeling position and beckons Draco towards him.

“What?” Draco asks, and stumbles across the small distance that separates them.

Potter grasps a hold of his robes and says, “Same thing. If we can’t risk using our own magic, why not use that which is already prevalent in the air? Why not change _his_ magic for our purposes?” And then he is running his hand down the front of Draco’s robes, from chest to hem. Steam rises in the air as he does so, and Draco already feels ten degrees warmer.

Draco pulls his robes closer around him to ward off the chill from the wind. Potter’s still on his knees though, and that’s when Draco realises that Potter is shivering against his legs, leeching the warmth from his dried robes.

Draco hauls him up and snarls, “Bloody hell, Potter, do the same for yourself!” He’d shake him, but Draco doesn’t think that Potter would notice with how badly he’s already shaking from the cold.

Potter pushes at the hands Draco has clenched in his sodden robes. “Alright,” he says. In a few moments, his own robes are dried and warm, but he still shivers every now and then. Draco’s fingers twitch towards his wand, wanting to cast a warming charm for him, but knowing that it would be risky. Instead, he gestures towards the cave and says, “Let’s get out of the wind.”

Potter follows him into the cave, footsteps a little unsteady from swimming against the water. Draco walks with a hand outstretched, running it along the side of the cave as he feels his way and using it to keep his balance. Potter is close behind him, and sometimes their hands brush against the damp walls of the cave that seem to hum with magic.

Potter grabs a fistful of his robes, effectively stopping Draco from moving any further. “What?” Draco hisses over his shoulder at him. It doesn’t seem right to speak loudly, not here, not in a place that houses such dark magic.

“Here,” Potter says, and runs his hand over the stone. Draco turns and watches as Potter raises his other hand, runs them both along the rock. “He’s got… some sort of protection charm on it. Something that needs to be broken with….”

Draco tears his eyes away from Potter’s wandering hands and tries to make out his face in the gloom. Potter hisses suddenly and draws his hand in close to his chest. “What happened?” Draco asks, stepping closer and tugging at the sleeve of Potter’s robes.

“Cut myself on the rock,” Potter explains. He raises his hand, and Draco can just barely see a jagged cut across his palm. He looks back at the wall and sees the projection of a sharp line of rock, just barely hidden from the gloom and the surrounding stone.

“Great,” Draco mutters. There’s no way they can heal Potter – no spells, no light, no ability to distinguish between the potions in his pockets.

Potter, though, doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he is pressing his hand against the surface of the wall, and the only thing Draco can think of is the infection Potter is bound to get from doing so.

Before he can lay into him, though, there’s a grinding of stone on stone, and the area of rock before them disappears. Draco takes a step back, watches as the archway comes into view, a green light emitting from its depth that speaks of nothing but death and forbiddance. Not for the first time, he wonders if it’s really necessary to do this.

He and Potter hover on the edge for a moment, unmoving. Potter eventually huffs out a breath, grasps the air before Draco’s hand until he has caught it, then drags him forwards. There’s a chill that runs down Draco’s spine that has nothing to do with the air as they pass under the arch and into the hidden cave entrance. When he looks back over his shoulder, it’s to see that the passage has resealed itself as soon as they’re over the threshold.

“Potter,” he says, and Potter turns to look at him. “Perhaps we should have set up an exit plan?”

Potter’s face looks sickly in the green light that seems to envelop them. His eyes are even greener, but instead of the warmth they usually hold, it only serves to make Draco’s blood run cold. He’s never seen anything like it, how eerie and dark Potter looks in here. He hopes that he’ll never have to see it after this, but he thinks it’s too much to hope for Potter to remain untouched by whatever they are to go through.

The only thing Potter says is, “One step at a time.” And then he demonstrates this by stepping further into the cave, taking Draco with him.

The light comes from the middle of the cave, Draco notices, but it’s not strong enough to reach the distant walls. Potter pulls him forwards slowly, approaching the lake there as quietly as they can. Draco’s stomach lurches when Potter leans over and looks down into the water, the surface dark and smooth, reflecting a small amount of the green light. He waits for something horrid to rise out of its depths and suck Potter under the still surface. When nothing happens, he still doesn’t relax.

“Can’t see the bottom,” Potter whispers at him.

“We are _not_ going swimming in there,” Draco says vehemently. “I don’t care where this Horcrux thing is hidden, there is no way we are touching whatever it is he has in there.”

“I don’t think we’ll have to,” Potter says. He drags Draco along the side of the lake. Draco feels the tension in the stale air around them, like a rusted chain being coiled about him, as Potter drags him along. The tension increases until it is thick enough that Draco has trouble breathing, and he’s forced to draw in great breaths through his mouth.

Potter stops when it’s at its thickest, stepping so close to the green-tinged water that Draco is tempted to pull him back by the scruff of his neck. “Can you feel that?” Potter whispers.

“What is it?” Draco hisses back, his body locked tight. “Whatever it is, I don’t like it.”

“It’s…” Potter says, reaching out a hand over the water, and Draco draws him back, tugs on his arm until he is standing back beside Draco.

“Are you insane?” Draco asks. He somehow manages to yell it without raising his voice from the whispers that they’ve taken to talking in. Potter just looks at him like he doesn’t understand why Draco is drawing him away from the danger they _both_ know exists in there, even if they can’t see it exactly.

“There’s something there,” he insists, and pushes Draco’s hand off his arm. He turns back to facing the lake and curls his hand through the air.

The only thing Draco has running through his mind is that Potter is fiddling with a curse from the Dark Lord; he’s about to be cursed, he’s going to be drawn into the lake….

Instead, it seems as if Potter is yanking on something in midair, pulling something up out of the water. Sweat appears on his temples, shining from the light and intensifying the sickly look. Draco eases forward slowly, then wraps his hands around Potter’s and pulls with him.

Through their combined efforts, they manage to raise a small boat out of the water, barely large enough for the two of them to cross the lake together. They look at it for a moment, share a look, and then climb inside it carefully. They clutch at each other to maintain their balance as the boat begins to move, cutting through the water smoothly and silently. It becomes obvious that they are moving towards an island in the middle of the lake, where the green is the strongest. Draco refuses to look down into the water, knowing that it would do him no good.

The island, when they step onto it, is small and circular, a giant stone basin in its centre. “What is that?” Potter says as they edge forwards, close enough to look into the basin and see the green potion there. It’s impossible to determine how much is in there, or even if there is anything at the bottom.

Draco holds his breath as he leans over the side, examining the potion with a careful eye. He taps his wand around the stone base, waves it in the air above it and frowns. Cautiously, he stretches out a finger, intending to dip it into the green liquid. Potter grasps his wrist and says, “Are you mad?”

Draco meets his eyes, sees his own apprehension and doubt reflected there. “We’ve got to find out a way to get the Horcrux,” he says simply.

“There’s got to be a better way,” Potter objects. His eyes dart around the potion, giving it a critical eye.

“I don’t suppose you can tell anything about it, can you?”

Potter shakes his head. “Not the potion itself. Just… he’s got a shield charm around it or something, but that’s all I can determine.” He glares a little down at the basin, as if it has openly mocked him.

Draco rummages in his pockets and withdraws his kit. “I doubt we’d be able to get much of anything past it. If I can do something to neutralize the potion,” he says, mostly to himself as he pulls out various phials and squints at their labels. “Think you can do something about the protection around it?”

“I can try,” Potter says uneasily. He walks around to the side of the basin, biting at his lip and a frown fixed to his face. Draco watches from the corner of his eye as Potter stretches out a hand until he hovers before the barrier, then runs it along the magic. The narrow space between his palm and the Dark Lord’s magic crackles and sparks, lighting up with reds and greens and silvers. It’s a little entrancing, and Draco forgets what it is he’s supposed to be looking for.

He finally decides on essence of agrimony, known best for its protection and healing, but also for its ability to counteract enchantment. As an afterthought, he pulls out a packet of caraway seeds as well, plants that had been grown and raised by the house-elves of Malfoy Manor long ago. He distantly remembers ransacking his father’s laboratory before making his getaway. He’s thankful now, though, that he had taken the risk to pillage it.

Potter watches as he taps a few of the seeds into the phial of oil, before he recorks it and gives it a little shake. He nods towards the basin, where Potter still has his hand above the protections that cover the potion. “Do you think we can sneak this past there?”

Potter glances down at the potion and bites at his lip. “It couldn’t hurt to try, could it?” He presses down with his hand, managing to make it sink inside the protection of the barrier. Removing his hand, he holds it out to Draco, waiting as Draco examines the phial, unstoppers it, and hands it over.

“What’s this supposed to do?” he asks.

“Going from the green colour of the potion – and considering who most likely made it – it’s safe to assume that the potion is there to hamper whomever comes across it. Either by making them go insane, poisoning them, making them kill themselves, or enslaving them – I can’t tell which.” Potter carefully eases the phial inside, the barrier fighting him all the way and the strain evident on his face. “Agrimony oil is especially known for its ability to break hexes and curses, especially against psychic attack, and also healing and locking negative magic. The caraway seeds enhance protection and memory, or mental powers, as it is.”

Potter tips the phial over, the light yellow of the oil spilling from the lip and swirling around in the green of the potion. The potion bubbles a bit, and Potter moves to retract his hand. The barrier, though, has solidified a bit, locking his hand well within the range of the potion as it begins to froth and churn, small droplets of potion escaping from the confines of the stone basin.

Potter’s eyes widen as he panics, and Draco jumps at him, clasps onto the sleeve of his robes and pulls hard, trying to get his hand free. Potter smacks his other hand down on the barrier, pushing and projecting magic at it at the same time. Draco, too, points his wand at the barrier, nervously eyeing the smoke that is now beginning to build in the air just over the potion, and shouts spell after spell at it, trying whatever he thinks would work.

There’s a crack, shortly followed by an explosion as Potter’s hand comes free, sending them both back several paces as they try to remain upright. They fall to their knees, far too close to the edge of the island with their toes nearly touching the glassy surface of the water. But at least they are not near the basin, as it begins to splinter, small chips of rock breaking loose. The potion oozes out of the cracks in a thick slime. Draco covers his nose and mouth, trying to block the smell of decay and the rancid rank of dark magic. Potter coughs and chokes, tears springing up in his eyes.

Just before it happens, Draco knows. He grabs Potter by the back of the neck and drags him down, shoving Potter down as he slams up a shield. The basin explodes with a horribly loud sound, echoing off and around the cave and coming back to them in pulsating waves of sound. The water at their backs ripples from the shock as well, forcing Draco to take hold of Potter and drag the two of them away from it, their knees rubbing against the ground and bruising.

Draco lifts his head as the last of the echoes dies. With the destruction of the basin, there is no longer anything that can be called light in the cave, only a dark haze that wraps itself around them. Through the gloom, he can just determine that they are surrounded by potion-speckled rock. The largest chunks are in the middle of the island, back where the basin had originally stood. Carefully, Draco lowers the shield and they make their way towards it. Draco doesn’t think it’s too much to hope that the explosion had managed to destroy the Horcrux as well, but he knows that they’re not about to see that much luck, not going from previous experiences.

There’s a glimmer of gold in amongst the green and yellow and grey, and Potter freezes not two steps away. Draco looks back at him, only to see a horrified expression on his face.

“Potter?” he asks, quiet after the explosion. Potter snaps around to look at him, starting guiltily.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding a little distracted. “It’s… nothing.” He crouches down, getting closer to the object that has caused them so much trouble to get.

It’s a locket, Draco sees, once he is close enough to see it. A serpentine ‘S’ coils around the front of it, and it makes the back of Draco’s mouth fuzzy, just from being so close to it. He runs his tongue around his mouth, trying to rid himself of the feeling.

Potter reaches out with a shaking hand, reaching out to wrap his hand around the golden chain. It glimmers, even when there is no longer any light for it to reflect.

“No, we shouldn’t touch–” Draco begins to say, latching onto Potter’s wrist just as he grasps the chain. The chain locks itself around Potter’s fingers, climbs upwards until it’s wrapped around where Draco is holding him and cuts into their skin, leaving it red and swollen. Potter lets out a shriek, and Draco tightens his grip on his wrist, drawing him close as he feels a lurch around his midriff; the cave vanishes, the rocks no longer dig into his knees, and he is left with Potter’s scream in his ears as they are taken into darkness.


	5. Betrayals

Hermione wavers a little when she and Ron come out of the squeeze of Apparition not far from the gates of Hogwarts. Her hand immediately rises to clutch at her shoulder, where one of the Death Eaters had just managed to get in a hit. She sways on her feet, but Ron grasps her by the elbow and steadies her.

“Alright?” he asks, his freckles standing out on his face. There’s a smudge on his nose, and a few cuts from when the marble had exploded around them. He doesn’t seem to notice, though.

Hermione nods, and Ron drops his hold on her elbow. The skin there tingles a little, even through the material of her robes.

Ron glares murderously up the slope that leads to the castle. He mutters under his breath and Hermione is just able to pick out what he says. “Better keep his word, that ungrateful prick,” he scoffs.

Spotting Hermione looking at him, Ron jerks his thumb up towards the castle. “Guess we’d better get a move on, eh? Don’t want to let Malfoy get the better of us.”

Hermione bites at her lip a little in nervousness. “They’ll be okay, won’t they?”

“They better be,” Ron says, growls really, as he begins to take long strides up the path. Hermione follows after him at a slightly slower pace, still a little unsteady from the sudden lack of battle. She’s a little lost out here in the autumn sunshine, the only noise being that of the birds and forest life, or the whisper of wind through leaves.

Neither of them speak as they head to the castle, and the silence is a little strained and uncomfortable in Hermione’s opinion. Though, maybe that’s just the way things are between Ron and her. Ron’s been through some difficult times – losing his father was particularly hard on him, hard on the entire Weasley family, really.

Hermione’s only been on any sort of terms with Ron after his sister, Ginny, had come to Hogwarts. With neither of them having a sister, and with Ginny growing up with six brothers, the two of them had managed to bond a little over their Hogwarts years. It was her second year, and Ginny’s death, that had forced Hermione and Ron to interact with each other more than just the occasional snipe. The war had brought them closer together, though, what with both of them being involved in the Order and working together.

Ron continues to mumble to himself as they climb the hill and pass through the gates that open at their touch and onto the grounds. Hermione’s thoughts are in a whirlwind, flitting from one thing to another and wondering where Voldemort could have possibly hidden his Horcrux in the castle. Slytherin dungeons? The lake? Forbidden Forest? That Chamber?

She hardly notices when they begin to climb the stairs leading to the entrance of the castle, and only comes out of her thoughts when she hears Ron’s voice. “What do you think Malfoy’s playing at?”

“Hmm?” Hermione asks, looking up and realising that they are climbing staircases. Ron deftly avoids the trick step half way up, and Hermione follows suit.

“Come on, you gotta admit that Malfoy has something up his sleeve. That slime ball,” Ron mutters darkly as an afterthought. “He’s made sure that there’s no way one could suspect him for anything other than being the son of Lucius Malfoy, but he’s been a little too careful.” He looks over at her, his blue eyes hard; there’s still that layer of warmth behind them, though, the warmth that without fail manages to seep into her.

She purses her lips thoughtfully. “Do you really think that, though?” she asks.

Ron sputters. “What d’you – of course I mean it!”

They’ve stopped now, standing in the middle of the landing. Hermione just looks at Ron. Eventually, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I _want_ to believe it,” he says eventually. “No matter what, he’s still a slimy little git. And yes, he doesn’t seem the type to go back on his word, and no, he hasn’t been sneaking around – at least, not that I’ve noticed.” His face darkens, and Hermione decides she’s not about to tell him about the morning she caught Malfoy at the table. “He’s up to something, though. Maybe it’s not as nefarious as we’re all expecting it to be, but….” He shakes his head.

“Maybe we should just talk with Dumbledore?” Hermione suggests, and Ron gives a weary sigh.

“I suppose so.” And then he’s back to shuffling down the corridor, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and walking with that lope of his. They don’t speak until they reach the statue that guards the way to Dumbledore’s office.

“Snapping scorpions,” Hermione says, and the gargoyle moves aside, allowing them to ascend the spiralling staircase. In a fit of chivalry, Ron allows her to go first, following her up at a slower pace. She rubs absently at the back of her neck, trying to massage away the ache that has risen there.

There are raised voices when they reach the door, and Hermione hesitates a little before knocking. The voices cut off immediately, and she worries her lip until she hears angry footsteps towards the door.

The door swings open, revealing the dour face of Severus Snape. He glares at her for a moment, then shifts his glare to Ron behind her. “Fine,” he snaps, and moves back, holding the door open for them. Hermione and Ron creep inside, trying to keep as much distance as possible between him and them.

Dumbledore is seated behind his desk, looking a little bedraggled where he sags back into his chair. It feels like the attack was longer ago than just this morning, and Hermione’s thrown a little off balance. He looks at them in surprise. Staggering to his feet, Dumbledore says, “You two are back quicker than I expected. But where are Messers Potter and Malfoy?”

“They went to find another, to the cave,” Hermione says, somewhat nervously, unsure how much of this Snape knows. Dumbledore’s expression darkens, betraying his worry even as he nods.

“So, what?” Snape says snidely. He strides across the room and stands before the window. The light leaks in around his form, casting his face into shadow when he turns back to them. “We found Potter, only to lose him again? Do we, or they for that matter, know what they are getting into, or doing? What if they are captured or trapped?”

Hermione bites her lip. “We had planned it out,” she says, but it seems insignificant in the face of Snape’s aggressiveness.

“No news is good news, Severus,” Dumbledore says wearily. He is looking at the gadgets spread out on his desk, looking from one to the other before raising his head and locking eyes with Hermione once more. “And what of Gringotts? Any luck there?”

Hermione is afraid to shake her head; she can’t stand being the bearer of yet more bad news. Thankfully, Ron speaks up beside her.

“Trap, sir,” he says. “The Death Eaters were waiting in the vault, probably with some way to notify the others. There was a whole group waiting for us when we came back to the building proper.”

Dumbledore gives a grave nod and his hand twitches, as if it’s longing to run through his beard. “I see. It did not work as well as we had hoped, then.”

“Are we doing nothing?” Snape asks quietly from across the room.

“I don’t know what there is we can do,” Dumbledore says. “Who knows where they are by now? They could be where they told you they were going, that is true. But they also could have fallen prey to a trap there as well, or found their efforts futile and have decided to check elsewhere.” He stands from his chair and moves to the side of the room, where Fawkes rests on his perch. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, stroking a finger down the golden plumage of Fawkes’ breast. The bird lets loose a string of song, warming and soothing Hermione’s frazzled nerves.

Turning back to them, Dumbledore says, “Perhaps it would be best for you two to head down to the hospital wing and allow Madam Pomfrey to look you over. In the meantime, we’ll send someone out after them, just in case.” He slides his gaze to where Snape still stands before the window. Snape heaves a sigh, almost as if he expected such a thing to happen. “The infirmary,” Dumbledore says to Ron and Hermione, his smile seeming a little forced but with that twinkle still there, a little dim though it may be.

Hermione nods and grabs hold of Ron’s sleeve, taking him with her as they leave the office. She doesn’t stand around as the door closes behind them as Ron so obviously wants to do, craning his head back and trying to hear snatches of the conversation between Dumbledore and Snape. Hermione pulls him after her.

“What _do_ we do?” Ron asks as they make their way slowly towards the infirmary.

“We do what we said we would, and search Hogwarts,” she responds assuredly. “I’ve got a list.”

“At least here we’ll have ready access to food and beds,” Ron says, his mood lightening considerably at the thought. “Can’t imagine what it would be like to go without. Malfoy will go mad without hot water, at the very least.” He sounds particularly gleeful about that last bit, and Hermione has to shake her head. Then he turns and looks at her and says incredulously, “A list.”

“Well, there were some spots covered in the notebook Dumbledore left, and some that weren’t,” she says in an undertone as they pass some fourth years going the opposite way. They look at Ron and Hermione curiously, and much too closely for Hermione’s comfort. It’s only then when she realises what they must look like; covered with dust and broken marble, faces a little red from being so close to dragon fire, robes askew. She flushes and attempts to straighten her robes. “Obviously, we start with the ones that are at least _suspected_ of housing one of them and then branch out. Dumbledore’s already cleared out some areas of the castle, like the Slytherin common rooms and all his old haunts.”

“Oh goodie,” Ron says sarcastically, but Hermione can tell there’s a sense of relief there, some sort of urgency to be doing something. Hermione feels the same way. It’s a way to distract themselves, keep themselves occupied.

“We’d best start this evening, while the students are in their common rooms,” she says, and pushes open the door to the hospital wing. Ron’s groan is drowned out by Madam Pomfrey’s exclamation.

* * *

Draco stirs, his head sliding along rough rock. He raises a hand to his head, groaning when his hand makes contact with a lump. His body aches all over, his stomach constantly in motion and he tries desperately to calm it.

There’s a shuffle and Draco twists his head, cracking his eyes open enough to see another body lying beside his.

“Are you okay?” Potter asks in a hushed whisper. His face is white, his lips thin. His hair sticks to his face, either from sweat or blood, making Draco’s stomach twist a little more.

“Never better,” Draco groans sarcastically. “Where are we?”

“Don’t know,” Potter says. He hesitates for a moment before confessing, “I don’t – I don’t really understand what happened.”

“Portkey,” Draco mumbles, closing his eyes and fighting the approaching headache. “The Dark Lord must have charmed the Horcruxes to take anyone who touched them to his dungeons. Or it could have just been that one.” Distantly, he remembers Granger saying something about possible traps on the Horcruxes, and wants to thump his head against the stone floor for not remembering that sooner, when it might have helped. The paranoid Dark Lord. He can’t imagine what it is they are about to face. All that hard work, all the effort to ensure Potter’s safety – all gone up in flames like parchment caught in an _Incendio_. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that our wands are still here?”

He hears the soft scrape of Potter shaking his head next to him. “No, someone came in just after we got here. Took our wands and emptied our pockets.”

Draco closes his eyes. “And the locket?” he asks, but he’s not sure if he wants to know the answer.

“I’ve still got it,” Potter says. “Sealed it away in an inside pocket just before he entered the cell.”

“Well, it probably won’t be there for much longer,” Draco says dejectedly. “He’ll probably take it from–” Draco doesn’t think he can finish what he had planned to say, that morbid thought that he buries, so he finishes lamely instead with, “you.”

Potter doesn’t say anything, and Draco takes the time to get his bearings, now that his head isn’t aching as much. The cell they are ensconced in is small, and quite dank. He can smell the mould that grows on the walls and there’s a constant dripping of water. There’s a cold circle of chain wrapped around his wrist, and he suspects that he is lying in something unpleasant.

Beside him, Potter is silent. His breathing is a little harsh, a little too shallow. “Did the locket do anything to you?” he finds himself asking Potter.

He hears the shift as Potter looks over at him. “No… at least, I don’t think it did.” His voice, too, is a little hollow, sounding almost defeated.

Draco shifts until he is propped on an elbow. He glares down at Potter, still lying silently beside him. He refuses to look at Draco, though, so Draco’s glare is a little useless, other than making him feel better.

“It’s not over,” he says, and Potter’s eyes eventually slide over to him.

“You don’t believe that,” Potter says softly, and Draco curses mentally.

He huffs and says, “That little talent of yours is quite annoying at times, you know that?”

Potter gives a throaty laugh, his unchained arm coming up and falling across his eyes. “I do know, probably more than anyone else.” His body seems to relax after this confession, sinking into the floor of the dungeon. He lets out a tired sigh, a sigh that sounds far too heavy in Draco’s opinion. He lies back down beside Potter, shifting against the stone floor. By the time he has finished moving, he and Potter are touching from shoulder to toe, sharing heat that is otherwise sucked away by the stone.

“Do you really think that? About it not being over?” Potter asks, sounding like a child asking his mother for reassurance.

“What else do we have if not that hope?” Draco asks. Potter doesn’t respond. “And even if – even if we don’t,” he swallows, “don’t make it, the Order will continue to fight. And Weasley and Granger are probably well on their way to getting the other Horcrux.”

He refuses to think about the fact that they also have one, and what would happen if they are unable to destroy it before they are killed. Perhaps the Dark Lord will hide it again, or a Death Eater will take it and sell it on the black market. There are numerous possibilities, many of which Draco doesn’t want to consider.

He’s not sure how long they lie on the cold stone, silent and tortured by their thoughts. The only thing he has running through his mind are futile escape attempts, ways they can get around their imprisonment. Potter mutters under his breath to himself, and Draco can hear the clanking of the chains as he twists his wrists. He has a feeling that anything Potter does will be useless; the Dark Lord surely has his cells warded against magic of any sort. He closes his eyes.

The next thing he is aware of is a sound different from the clink of Potter’s shackles, an odd shuffling, like the sound of careful footsteps from far off. Potter has gone silent beside him, holding his breath as he strains to hear. Against his better wishes, Draco can’t help but think, ‘ _It’s about time_.’

His hand moves across the dirty floor of the cell and clasps Potter’s hand, squeezing gently in encouragement. His mind is whirling; if there’s any way at all – _any_ way – he can convince them that this isn’t who they think it is, or to spare him some amount of pain, Draco would take it. He’s not about to hide himself anymore, and besides, there’s really no point at the moment.

“Potter,” he whispers harshly, just loud enough to be heard over the near silent footsteps. “I don’t know exactly when it happened, but, I think that I’ve become quite–”

He breaks off, though, at the skritch of metal on metal. He’s run out of time, and any confessions now would only make things worse for them in the end. He bites his lip and his hold on Potter’s hand increases, Potter returning the pressure with equal fervour.

“We’ll get through it.” Potter’s breath is hot against his ear, and from this close, Draco can just pick up that scent that is uniquely him.

There’s a wash of magic, and the shackles fall away, but neither Potter nor Draco move. “Stand,” is the command, said in a voice far too familiar for Draco to contemplate. He grits his teeth, clenches his eyes shut and pleads, _No, no, anyone but him_.

Potter shifts slowly until he is sitting up, pulling a reluctant Draco along with him. As they stand, Draco steadfastly refuses to look at their warden, the one who will surely bring them to his Master and seal their deaths. While Draco would like to think he has some sort of hold over this man, he knows it would be a lost cause. There’s nothing he can say or do, and surely it would be nothing but satisfaction for Lucius to hand his own unworthy son over to his Lord.

His eyes are still clenched closed. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” Lucius says, and Draco can hear the scorn in his voice, maybe with a tinge of regret. He might be imagining that, though. Lucius never regrets his actions.

There’s something that is clawing at Draco’s insides, twisting to get out and leap at Lucius, rend him limb from limb. The hope that Draco had held, that his father would change his mind, the hope he never knew he had held, disappears at the sound of his voice. It curls up like a withered leaf that is soon trodden on and crushed beneath the heel of a boot, and leaves Draco feeling dry and empty.

There’s a sigh, a rustle of cloth and a faint whisper, like that of a wand being withdrawn.

“Here.”

“Thank you,” Potter says beside him.

Draco’s eyes shoot open. He turns to look at Potter, holding his wand and smiling – _smiling_ – in the direction of his father. Draco flicks his eyes down to where Potter’s hand is wrapped around his wand.

“What?” is the first thing out of his mouth. He glares over at Lucius and snarls, “What are you playing at? Trying to get us to lower our defences?” He pulls Potter behind him with a sharp tug on his hand, and Potter stumbles a little as he’s dragged.

“It is no trick,” Lucius says. “Though it is admirable that you are not taking this lightly, and I commend your caution.”

Draco glares. “What reason do I have for ever trusting you? This reeks of a trap.”

“I trust him,” Potter says stubbornly from behind him.

“One would say you trust too easily, Potter. What is there to say I am not luring you into a trap, like Draco implies?” Lucius’ cold gaze sears into Potter, and Draco looks back and forth between them.

“It’s not that I trust easily,” Potter says. “I just know where to put it.”

Lucius curls his upper lip. He darts a glance off to the side at Draco, and if Draco hadn’t already been looking at him, he would have missed it. “Fine,” he bites out, and from within the depths of his cloak, he withdraws Draco’s wand. He looks at it thoughtfully for a moment, then hands it out for Draco to take. Draco eyes it suspiciously.

If anything, he knows he can trust Potter. And if Potter has placed some small amount of trust in Lucius… he grasps the handle of his wand, and feels a tingle up his forearm. “Why?” he asks.

Lucius is busy pulling other objects from his pockets, shrunk so that they are able to fit in and not look suspicious. He holds out Potter’s rucksack, and Potter moves away from his position behind Draco, dropping his hand in order to grasp the strap. He roots through it for a moment before slinging it over his shoulder. Draco takes his potions kit numbly when it is held out for him.

“We don’t have a lot of time, so I am not able to explain it to you fully. Macnair is supposed to come down soon and fetch you,” Lucius says quickly. “I’ve been acting spy from the beginning. I had a safe house set up in case something like this happened. It’s ready for the both of you now.” He turns with a swirl of his cloak and leads the way out of the cell, clearly indicating that they should follow.

Draco holds Potter back, and whispers, “Are you sure about this?” Potter just looks at him, then gives a slow nod and tugs Draco along after him as he leaves the dingy cell.

Lucius strides down the length of the corridor, lined with cells very much like the ones they had appeared in, Potter following close behind. Draco drags a little, still a little wary despite desperately wanting to believe Potter’s intuition. Lucius eases open the door at the end of the corridor, a small crack just large enough to be able to get a decent look out. He slips out silently, Draco and Potter following like shadows.

It’s silent as they make their way through the halls, their shadows flickering against the stone walls from the occasional torch that lines them. Draco holds his breath as they ascend a set of stairs, his palm sweaty from where it is clutched around his wand. Ahead of him, both Potter’s and his father’s shoulders are tense, even as his father tries to look at ease.

Lucius stops at the top of the staircase and indicates for them to wait in the stairwell, hidden in the shadows and behind the door. Draco tilts his head, trying to see into the hallway ahead of them, watching as his father walks away from them until he reaches the middle of the corridor and pauses under a broken bracket set into the wall.

“Potter,” Draco hisses into his ear, feels the edge of Potter’s hair tickle his nose. He feels Potter lean back into him, tilt his head a little so Draco has better access. “What – what is it that has you so convinced?” He’s not sure he can take it if this all turns out to be a ruse.

Potter keeps his eyes fixed on the corridor and Lucius as he says over his shoulder to Draco, “There’s nothing that indicates he’s baiting us. His magic isn’t as malicious and twisted as that of the other Death Eaters I’ve seen. Nothing at all like that _woman’s_.” His voice turns hard as he speaks.

Draco eases back, transferring his attention from his father to Potter. He skates his hand over Potter’s shoulders, trying to calm him a little, offers a little squeeze. Potter doesn’t quite relax, but a small portion of the tension leaves.

Draco’s breath stops as the door at the far end of the hall slams open, and a gleeful Macnair strides – dances, really – out of the room. He stops, though, upon seeing Lucius halfway down the corridor. Just as quickly, he resumes his pace in a far more sedate way.

“Lucius.” Macnair nods at him as he strides past, and Lucius curls his lip. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about the Dark Lord’s plans for your son. I bet you can’t wait to have the opportunity to teach him how to better place his loyalties.” There’s no use for wearing a mask in here, allowing Draco to clearly see the twisted smile that spreads over Macnair’s face. “Don’t think you’ll get all the honours yourself, do you? I wouldn’t mind having a go, for one.”

“I don’t think so, Walden,” Lucius says coolly. His brow twitches a little in distaste.

“Ah, never fret, Lucius! I’m sure if Draco decides to make amends, our Lord will be willing to spare his life. After all, not only would he be useful for getting information on that pesky Order, but I’m sure he’d try to make up for… picking the losing side.” He throws Lucius a lecherous wink.

Lucius sneers at his back as Macnair continues down the hallway and heads towards the door that conceals Draco and Potter from view. Draco is just able to make out the view of Lucius’ face over Macnair’s shoulder, white and pinched.

Draco pulls Potter back away from the door, leaving it open just a bit. He raises his wand, and Potter follows suit, both aiming towards the spot where Macnair is about to appear.

The door swings open, and Draco gets one look at Macnair’s stunned expression at seeing both him and Potter out of the cell and armed, before he is firing off the harshest spell he can think of. Macnair cries out, raising his hand in a vain attempt to ward them off. Potter cries out his own spell, and Draco hears his father incant his own at Macnair’s back.

Macnair crumples, bound from head to toe, gagged and writhing. His eyes have rolled back until only the whites are showing. There’s a click and Draco looks up to where Lucius still stands by the bracket, now suspended over a pitted entry. Lucius beckons them closer. Potter steps over Macnair’s prone form; Draco makes it a point to trod over him, grinding his heel a bit in Macnair’s stomach.

“Through here,” Lucius says, pointing them into the cavern. “I’ll deal with this.” He is gone well before Draco or Potter are able to say anything. Draco throws an apprehensive look back at his father as he passes through the doorway, dragging Macnair behind him with magic.

Potter tugs at his sleeve, then gestures towards the opening. “We can wait further in.” Draco gives a terse nod and leads the way into the darkness, guiding Potter with a grip on his elbow. The light behind them fades until it is completely swallowed by the darkness. At the sound of footsteps behind them, Draco can only hope that it is his father, returning from dealing with Macnair, and not another Death Eater sent to check on why it was taking him so long to return.

Rounding a bend, Draco pushes Potter into the wall and peers around the edge, trying to make out the person following after them. Perhaps it is the sound ringing around the cavern, but Draco thinks he hears more than one set of footsteps. His nerves tighten into a bunch, twisting anxiously in his stomach.

When his father appears, Draco finds himself torn between relief and fear; he can’t help but still be a little apprehensive over what his father’s intentions are. “Go,” Lucius hisses at them, and beckons them down the passage. “We’re being followed.”

Draco secures his grip on Potter’s forearm, pulling him along after Lucius as they go through the passage, their footsteps ringing off the sides of the surrounding stone. He can just make out a set of footsteps behind him, loud shouts echoing down the passage and surrounding them in sound. Lucius curses and encourages them to run faster.

Draco’s heart is beating as fast as the slap of their feet on the ground as they run pell-mell down the passage. A streak of light barely misses them, and Potter twists in his grip, shooting off a round of spells at their pursuers.

There’s a cackle, and Potter screeches to a stop. “No, Potter, what are you doing?” Draco almost yells, pulling as hard as he can on Potter, trying to get him to _move_.

“That laugh,” he says, snarls really, as he fights Draco’s hold, fighting to get back and duel Bellatrix.

“Now is not the time, Potter!” Draco yells desperately. Ahead of them, Lucius has stopped, looking back at them anxiously. “We need to go! If we don’t now, we’ll never get the chance to, and then what will happen? Fight her on your terms, on _your_ ground, not while we’re so close to being captured again!”

Potter wavers; the footsteps are getting louder, the laughter echoing down the passage towards them. In Draco’s imagination, he can see Bellatrix looming out of the darkness, all wild hair and black robes and maniacal laughter. He pulls again at Potter, trying to pull him away, and further down the passage, Lucius waits. Draco sees him speaking, but he’s not able to make out the words.

Eventually, Potter turns and stumbles away, dragging Draco with him until Draco recovers and takes over, leading the way and keeping Potter on course.

They erupt out of the passage into the darkness of night, appearing in the middle of a forest overrun with crawling plants and snares. Lucius looks back at them, his eyes – the same as Draco’s – bright in the darkness. He holds out his hand to Draco, says, “It’s safe to Apparate here. Quickly, before they reach us.”

Draco hesitates, stares at his father’s hand held out to him. Very easily, he could take Potter and Apparate himself, and he recognises the choice his father is giving him, how much it weighs. He can hear Potter’s breathing beside him, harsh from the run and a match to his own. In the end, it’s the promise of a safe house and Potter’s belief that makes Draco catch Lucius’ hand and allow him to take them away.

* * *

The house they appear before is inconspicuous, bland on the outside and boasting an overgrown garden, sheltered by the surrounding trees. Lucius leads the way up the cobbled garden path, Draco and Potter following, tripping over the uneven stones. There’s a faint tremble making itself known to Draco, the adrenaline left over from their escape.

As they cross the threshold, Draco feels the shimmer of the wards, pressing in on them and parting around them to let them through. Lucius taps the door with his wand several times, releasing the locks and bolts and the door eases open, granting them entry.

Potter has slumped a little, and Draco heaves him through the door, wrapping his arm around Potter’s waist and carrying him up the steps. Glancing over at Potter’s face, he notices that he looks a little pale and withdrawn.

“Is there a bed?” he asks Lucius. Lucius nods and strides towards the far end of the room, holding open the door there for Draco as he walks Potter over. Potter stumbles over the threshold, and collapses onto the bed. Draco kneels beside him and places a hand on Potter’s knee.

“What is it?”

“Just,” Potter stops and shakes his head, as if trying to clear it before trying to focus on Draco again. “Just overtaxed myself, I think. With the combination of Gringotts and the cave, it’s something I’m not too used to doing. I’ll be fine.” He offers Draco a weak smile.

Draco nods and stands, looking down at Potter for a moment, torn between staying with him or going back out to face his father.

“Go,” Potter says, nodding towards the empty doorway, Lucius having gone off elsewhere.

“Get some rest, Potter,” Draco says sternly. Potter nods and falls back onto the bed, turning on his side and seeming to fall asleep instantly. Draco stands there for a moment longer before he leaves the room, closing the door behind him silently.

Lucius is seated at the table in the small kitchenette, a steaming pot of tea and two cups in front of him. Draco slides into the seat opposite his father, examining Lucius. It’s been awhile since he’s been this close to his father, and he’s changed a lot since Draco has last seen him. His face is a little more lined, a little more drawn, paler than Draco remembers. His hair is as long as always, the ribbon that holds it back slightly loose from their escape. His hair has receded more in the past few years, and there are visible signs of silver mixed with the pale gold. His robes as well are more haggard, looser on his frame and wrinkled. In short, Draco’s never seen his father looking so unlike himself, so undignified.

Draco’s not sure exactly what to say, or even where to start. There are too many questions fighting in his head, pushing one another around too quickly for him to be able to get a grasp on them. So he sits staring at the table and hoping that his father will make the first move.

He does eventually, but it’s not what Draco expects. “Your tea will get cold,” he says, and lifts his own teacup to his lips, sipping delicately. Draco looks up at him, surprised, to find that his father is looking off to the side, avoiding any possibility of having eye contact with his son.

Rage fills Draco, hot as Fiendfyre. Doubt, quelled by Potter’s adamant belief in his father, comes back in waves. He shoves his tea away from him and stands, outraged. “How do I know you haven’t poisoned it? How can I be sure that you’re not about to sell me out or catch me off my guard, like you’ve done before?”

At the table, Lucius flinches. He pushes his own cup away from him, then looks up at Draco. Draco’s knees shake; his father, once so proud and sure of himself, now looks hollow, like he’s wondering how he’s still alive.

“Draco,” he says, in such a harsh voice that it’s barely understood. “Please, I’m so sorry. Allow me to explain.”

Draco sits back down at the table, landing in his chair in a heap. He watches as his father drags a hand across his face and leans back in his chair. Lucius Malfoy is not one to apologize or plead, and he had just done both in the same breath – to _Draco_.

“I may have followed the Dark Lord faithfully early on, when he had been talking about Pureblood supremacy and the like. But there came a time when it got to be too much, when I realised that his methods and ideals were not what they had appeared to be.” Lucius clasps his hands together on the table in front of him, and Draco suspects that they might be shaking faintly. “He wanted to use my family, use the families of his followers, to build his army, use them as sacrifices and examples. Use the wives of Death Eaters as little more than breeding tools.

“I had no wish for either you or Narcissa to be used in this way,” Lucius says, his voice shaking in anger. “I knew that there was no way the Dark Lord would be gone forever, not that easily. I sent your mother away to protect her, and faked her death so that the Dark Lord wouldn’t be able to use her. I had to go on and on about the merits of being Pureblood, how Mudbloods and Muggles are scum, in an attempt to indoctrinate you. At the same time, I was slipping you an independence serum, so that you _wouldn’t_ fall into this trap.”

Draco thinks he’s stopped breathing. Surely he hadn’t heard that right. “You… you drugged me?”

Lucius gives Draco a flat look. “Would you have preferred that I didn’t?” Draco doesn’t answer, and instead looks off to the side. Lucius gives a small huff and continues. “It was only enough to give you an escape route, and only until you were old enough to make your own decisions. When you were ready for Hogwarts, I contacted Dumbledore. I asked if he could find an opportunity to give you a different side, explain things to you that I couldn’t.”

Lucius looks down at the table, staring at the cold tea that sits before him. “I hadn’t wanted you to make the same mistakes that I had.”

Draco struggles to take this all in, trying to arrange it into some semblance of order. “So what have you been doing since then?”

Lucius waves his wand over their teacups and Vanishes the cold tea. He gets up and heads towards a cabinet in the corner of the room. There’s the faint clink of bottles, and then he returns with a bottle of Firewhisky. He adds a healthy amount to their mugs and tops it off with fresh tea from the pot. Draco takes a grateful sip, closing his eyes as the warmth spreads through him.

“Following orders as best I can. Mostly trying not to attract too much of the Dark Lord’s attention,” Lucius says eventually.

The Firewhisky seems to have brought Draco’s anger back. The tea sloshes over the side of his cup as he sets it back down on the table. “And that time you captured me? Was that just following orders too?”

Lucius closes his eyes, but that doesn’t stop Draco from seeing the pain that flits over his face. “I did not know that it would be you,” he says quietly.

“Oh?” Draco sneers. “It wouldn’t have mattered if it was anyone else?”

“Of course it would have, don’t be a fool,” Lucius snaps back. “Every wizard the Dark Lord brings down is a decrease in those who oppose him.” He gives a loud sigh and eases back in his chair, looking as if he’s aged ten years.

Draco swings back the rest of his tea and feels the Firewhisky flare through him. “So what do we do, then?”

Lucius gives an almost careless shrug and says, “Do what we have been doing? I’ll be of whatever assistance I can be.”

Draco nods and tightens his grip on his teacup briefly, before letting it go and standing. He has to change around his entire understanding of his father, but he’s relieved that he’s no longer against him. “I think I’ll check on Potter,” he says, his voice a little shaky.

“Draco,” Lucius’ voice calls to him just as he’s reaching for the knob. He looks over his shoulder, over to where his father is sitting at the table. “I’m… proud of what you’ve done, and of the man you’ve become,” Lucius says earnestly.

Draco swallows around the lump in his throat, and gives a small smile. Lucius looks far more relaxed than he had ever been since Draco could remember. Despite his shabby appearance, he looks regal as he returns Draco’s smile with his own.

The knob turns beneath his hand, and Draco steps into the room.

 

* * *

He feels the beat of the Horcrux as it lies within the folds of his robes, locked away and warded by spells. Harry places his hand over the small lump in his pocket and feels the returning pressure as the locket jumps beneath his hand. He lies in silence, not thinking, and staring blankly at the flow of magic over the walls across the room.

 _Horcrux_.

He knows that if he takes it out now, he’d see that black twisted lump, slimy in nature and seemingly sucking light from the air. His throat constricts and he closes his eyes and rolls over, trying to ward off the wave of sickness.

He’d only seen something like it a few times before. He feels it now, pulsing on his forehead in beat with that of the locket. It was the one bit of magic he’s ever been able to see when he’d caught his reflection in the odd shop window. He’d never been able to see his own magic, _his_ light. Only that blackened lump stuck to his forehead.

He doesn’t move when he hears the creak of the door opening, and the soft _snick_ it makes when eased closed. He knows it’s Draco, even without turning around. He waits, and eventually, he feels Draco draw closer, the tingle of his magic creeping back over Harry and sweeping away his worries, dispelling that sick feeling in his stomach.

“Potter?” Draco says in a voice barely over a whisper.

Harry rolls over to face him and opens his eyes. He can’t help but smile when he sees the familiar bright glow of Draco’s magic. “Hey,” he says.

Draco snorts. “‘ _Hey_ ’? Really, Potter,” he says, but he says it in an amused tone, as if he had almost expected Harry to say something along those lines. He moves nearer, coming to a stop beside the bed and kneeling.

“Good talk?” Harry asks, and he sees Draco’s light flicker.

“Yeah,” he says, but he sounds slightly off balance. “Lots of things to be covered. Good sleep?”

“Didn’t get much, to be honest.” Harry closes his eyes, feeling himself relax in Draco’s presence. He hears Draco huff and shuffles over on the bed, patting the space he has vacated and offering it up to Draco. Draco doesn’t move – seems to be holding his breath, really – until Harry says softly, “Please?” and holds the covers up.

He feels Draco slide in beside him, that warmth that seems to emanate from him seeping into Harry and soothing his nerves, calming him down and energizing him in a way sleep never would be able to. He pulls the covers back over Draco as he settles, and burrows closer. He’s never felt so at peace with anyone before. Hesitantly almost, Draco drapes his arm across Harry’s waist.

Harry’s better at avoiding his thoughts this way. He’s not worrying about the locket or what that black lump means for him. He’s not worrying about what they still have to do, or where to go from here. Instead, he worries over not being close enough, about losing this warmth. It’s as if all the pain that he’s gone through in the past few months, the losses he’s felt, are swept away, leaving him feeling light and free.

“You said you wanted to know what I put in that book of mine,” he says into Draco’s chest, and feels Draco twitch beside him.

“Yes,” Draco says breathlessly. “But don’t feel you have to just because I asked.”

Harry shakes his head, his hair dragging across the pillow and his nose brushing Draco’s chest. “No, I’ve wanted to tell you, there’s just never been a good time to do so.” He shifts a little closer, his knees brushing against Draco’s and he feels Draco twitch. He allows a small smile to escape.

“You… said something about dreams before?” Draco asks, and Harry nods.

“Mhm, nearly every dream I’ve had. They all share an odd element, have this feeling about them that makes me want to understand them more. It wasn’t until Dumbledore began explaining things to me, and then again with that black book, that made me realise they were all about Voldemort.” He feels Draco flinch a little at the name, but not as much as he had in the past. Harry watches the pulse of his light, sees that small curious vein weave in amongst the blue and gold and white.

They come back to him as he explains them, everything he had written down over the years. The making of plans in dilapidated buildings. How they plagued him about long corridors, and a man he did not know at the time being tortured at the end. Countless meetings at long tables as a snake coiled about his chair, the numerous disappointments, all the green flashes of light. And the deaths: one in a graveyard, and another in that corridor. He sees them vividly as he describes them, how when he saw his hands, they were always long fingered and white, and he can’t help but shudder as he remembers.

Draco’s arm tightens around his middle as he talks, and it’s still tight about Harry when he’s done. “Sound more like premonitions than dreams to me,” Draco says, his voice a little rough. “Though, it sounds like he was almost trying to lure you to him every now and then, see if you’d take the bait.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I tried finding out where those places were before, long after I had them. I wanted to know if they were real, and what was so special about them.”

“Did you ever find any of them?” Draco asks stiffly.

Harry gives a small nod. “Not very many. The graveyard, and the house, I think, but not the corridor or any of those rooms.”

He feels Draco chuckle against him. “Well, of course not those. Those sound like the sort of things that would belong to the Magical world, not the Muggle one. Department of Mysteries perhaps, or some sort of hidden passage.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He manages to shuffle a bit closer, and feels Draco tighten his arm even more. Harry thinks they both need the comfort now.

“Potter,” Draco says after a moment, breaking Harry out of his daze. Draco’s sigh ruffles Harry’s fringe, making the strands that are long enough tickle his nose. Harry gives a small moan as Draco begins to rub a hand up and down his back, kneading the muscles with his fingertips now and then. “Potter,” he says again, and Harry gathers the energy to lift his head. “Maybe I should leave and let you get some sleep.”

“You’re ruining a perfectly good moment,” Harry points out, and decides that it’s best if he makes Draco quiet down. He knows Draco has been flirting with him here and there; he’s not oblivious or stupid. He’s done a small amount of flirting back, really. Or, at least, been more open with Draco than he would be with anyone else so readily. There’s something between them that Harry knows he’s never felt with anyone else. So it only makes sense to stop him from going, because he knows neither of them want that.

It’s easy to stretch up and seal his lips over Draco’s, feel that small surprised gasp Draco lets escape. Harry slides his arm around Draco’s waist as well, fisting the back of his robes and feeling the dirt from the cell lodge beneath his nails. He pulls back a little from the kiss, only to feel Draco surge forwards in an attempt to return it.

Their noses bump up against one another’s, their teeth clack a little, but Harry doesn’t mind. This has been something long coming, he thinks, trying to urge Draco’s lips apart. Draco lets out a small whimper and sucks Harry’s tongue into his mouth. His hand dips lower than it had on its previous passes, coming to rest on Harry’s arse.

Harry breaks away, breathless, and says, “Your robes are filthy.”

Harry can tell that Draco is smirking at him as he says, “Yours are just as bad.” Then he’s squirming on the bed to ease his robes off while trying not to move too far away. Harry helps a little, brushing the pad of his finger over each button as he slides them through their holes, trying to distinguish the pattern on them. He feels Draco’s hands attacking the clasps on his own hand-me-down robes, tugging them apart with short little motions.

Draco has Harry’s robes pushed to his elbows by the time Harry has finally managed to undo every last button on Draco’s. After the eighth button, he thinks that the design that is stylized into them is an etching of a dragon. They manage to shrug out of their robes and cast them over the side of the bed.

Draco smoothes his hands over Harry’s chest, and Harry feels a shiver of excitement. His skin tingles where Draco touches it, even over the material of his shirt. He mimics the path of Draco’s hands, sliding his own over Draco’s chest and feeling the buttons there catch against his fingers.

Draco slips his fingers under Harry’s tee shirt and skates them over his abdomen, sending waves of pleasure through him, and he arches up into the touch. He tugs on Draco’s belt, pulling the leather out of its clasp and popping the button on Draco’s trousers. It all feels slightly surreal to him, feeling Draco’s fingers on his skin, feeling every hot breath of his. He loses himself in the sensations as Draco inches his shirt up his chest.

Draco settles his palm against Harry’s chest, and it’s then when Harry realises his hands are shaking a bit too much, fumbling with the fastenings of Draco’s trousers more than they should. He gives it up as a lost cause.

“Draco,” he whines, pressing his hips forwards until his groin brushes against Draco’s. Draco’s hips jerk forward, and he grasps the back of Harry’s head, dragging him closer and sucking on his bottom lip, eliciting a moan. He feels Draco sling a leg over his hip, feels Draco fumbling with the zip of his jeans, and Harry can’t help but push his hips forward as Draco’s fingers brush against his cock through the layers of material that still separate them.

Draco gives a small cry of pleasure once he gets Harry’s jeans undone, and he shoves them down Harry’s hips, Harry wriggling in an attempt to help. He tugs on the waist of Draco’s trousers, urging him to lower his own.

Their trousers fall to the floor next to the robes, followed quickly by Harry’s tee. Draco rolls his hips slowly against Harry’s, rocking back and forth and rubbing their erections together, and Harry doesn’t think it could possibly get any better.

Draco stops, though, panting, his breaths hot against Harry’s cheek and his fingers tight on Harry’s hip. “Potter,” he breathes, “have you stopped and thought about what we’re doing?”

Harry presses his hips forward, slips his hand down under the back of Draco’s pants and squeezes his arse. “I’ve told you before, Draco, you’re different. Things have always been different with you.” Harry knows he’s not thinking properly, but he’s sure of one thing. This is something he wants – _has_ wanted for some time now. He’s kept it close so far, and the reasons he had for that make no sense to him now. The only thing that he understands now is that this is right.

He pushes Draco over until he is lying on his back, and Harry straddles his thigh. He grinds down and hears Draco moan, sees that shimmer in his magic, feels Draco’s hands tugging his pants down. He shivers as Draco’s fingers smooth over his hips as the material is lowered. Harry tugs a little at Draco’s pants, making Draco raise his hips and allow Harry to slide them down as far as he can. He kicks his own off when Draco has them lowered enough.

Draco rolls them back over until they are on their sides, his hand resting on Harry’s hip and their legs entwined. He rubs his hand back and forth, rolls his hips, and Harry responds, pushing back into contact with Draco, allowing his own hands to wander over Draco’s skin.

Draco’s hips jerk when Harry slides his hand down and takes their cocks into his grip. Draco’s breaths are shaky, coming in great gulps. He moves his head closer to Harry’s on the bed, making their noses bump again, and touches their foreheads together. Each breath of air taken and released is felt, and Harry tries to match his strokes to their breathing.

Draco’s kisses are sloppy, pressed against Harry’s lips, the corner of his mouth, the tip of his nose – anywhere Draco can reach. He reaches a hand down and fondles Harry’s sac, rubbing a finger against Harry’s perineum and back up, until he is stroking along with Harry. Harry shifts closer, raising his leg a little more where it rests on Draco’s hip. He tries to return Draco’s kisses, tries to keep that mouth on his for longer. Draco is so filled with passion; every noise he makes resonates within Harry, each groan and soft moan and half plea.

Harry rubs his thumb over the heads of their cocks, toys with the foreskin a little and makes Draco shudder even more. Their hips thrust in time with each other, and then Draco is coming, shuddering and jerking and panting; his come spreads between them, fills Harry’s hand as he continues to milk Draco’s prick and thrusts his hips, falling into his own spiralling climax.

“Merlin, Potter,” Draco says, barely a whisper against Harry’s cheek. They are covered in sweat and come, the cooler air of the room making Harry’s skin tingle. Harry rests his head against Draco’s shoulder, trying to even his breaths and calm his racing heart.

When it’s over, guilt consumes him; he knows this can’t last.

He can’t hurt Draco.

* * *

Draco’s mind is still whirling. Between the new insight on his father and this new development between him and Potter – which he hadn’t allowed himself to believe was possible – he feels a little unsteady. Potter himself looks a little worried; he’s a little tense where he lies beside Draco, where he was relaxed mere minutes before.

Draco looks over at him. Potter’s eyes are closed, lashes lying against his cheeks. His breathing is slow and measured, and if Draco didn’t know any better, he would say that Potter had fallen asleep.

Draco reaches over the side of the bed, trying to find the pile his robes have made on the floor. It’s an awkward angle, but he’s able to extract his wand from within the folds, letting his robes fall back into the heap they seem so settled in. Draco cleans them up with a quick spell, dispelling the sweat and come and freshening the sheets. He drops his wand on top of his robes.

“Potter,” he whispers, and Potter shifts beside him. “Get some sleep.”

“I’m not the only one who needs it,” Potter mumbles. His lips move over Draco’s chest, following the path of his breath.

Draco supposes he’s right; they’re all going to need as much rest as they can get, when they can get it. He settles more comfortably into the small bed, presses close to Potter. Potter somehow manages to drag the covers up and over them from where they’ve settled around their ankles, then settles back down in his previous position.

Draco closes his eyes, feeling warm and satisfied – _lighter_ than he’s felt in a long time. He’s no longer faced with the constant fear of having to face his father from opposite ends of the battlefield; they’ve managed to evade their enemies at every turn. And here, cocooned in warmth with Potter, strands of his black hair tickling Draco’s nose, it feels as if there’s nothing more to the world than what he can see right now.

He’s drifting when Potter shoots up in the bed, jarring him out of a dream he can’t recall. Draco sits up, the covers pooling in his lap and he places a calming hand on Potter’s shoulder. “What is it?”

“The cup,” Potter pants, turning to face Draco, eyes impossibly wide. Sweat dots his brow and his heaving chest, the beginning streams of sunlight through the sheers making it glisten. “There was a dream I had awhile ago. I couldn’t remember it for a long time – I nearly always remember them when they have to do with this. But this one… I don’t know why I couldn’t before, but now–” Potter says, his words coming fast and urgently.

“Potter, slow down. I can’t understand what you’re trying to say!” Draco gives Potter’s shoulders a small shake, trying to bring him back into focus.

Potter’s eyes lose that distant look they had gained. “The cup,” he says. “The one that was supposed to be in Gringotts. It’s in the graveyard, where he came back.”

Potter’s voice seems to echo in the silence of the room. Draco’s hand falls back to the bed behind Potter. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Potter nods grimly. “Positive.”

* * *

“I want to learn how to Apparate,” Potter says, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly.

“Is there time for that, though, Potter?” Lucius asks, once more the immovable man Draco remembers from his childhood. Draco thinks that his father is trying to make up for the slips he made previously.

“And if there’s an emergency?” Potter shoots back. “What if you two are hurt too badly to Apparate, and only I can get us out, or if we become separated? I think it makes more sense for me to be the one to take us to where Voldemort” – both Draco and Lucius flinch – “stashed the cup. Since you’ve made it known that you’ve turned traitor,” he looks at Lucius, who glowers back, “he’ll be more suspicious of you, might even have wards up against you. And as far as I know, Draco doesn’t even know where the graveyard is!”

Lucius observes Potter closely. Quite frankly, Draco is surprised that Potter is going against his father, or that his father is allowing Potter to do so. He knows that it would be easy for Lucius to cut Potter down and end any further arguments. “What’s to stop me from telling Draco the location? I have been there before, you realise, if we’re talking about the same one.”

The revelation doesn’t put Potter off, who fumes a little. “He’s your son. You wouldn’t want to lead him into there without a back up plan of some sort. And I can’t keep depending on people to take me everywhere all the time.”

Lucius nods his head at Potter’s point. “Do you have any idea how strenuous the process is? Or how long it would take to teach you how to do it accurately and avoid mistakes?”

Potter’s jaw is set, though. He meets Lucius’ stare and holds it. Draco turns away to hide his smirk.

“Just teach him, Father. He’ll find out another way soon enough, and he’s a quicker study than you think,” he says, and hears Lucius huff behind him.

“Fine. Over here, Potter. Now there are three things you have to keep in mind when trying to Apparate….”

Draco turns to face the window, watching as the leaves fall off the trees and to the ground in a shower of red and gold and orange. Here, away from it all, it’s easy to imagine that there is nothing to worry about other than what they are going to eat next.

It’s quiet in their hideaway, and Draco covers a yawn. Potter had insisted on getting out of bed as soon as he’d had that realisation about the Horcrux. He still has that tired look about him, the bags under his eyes and the lines of strain. Draco doesn’t think Potter has had a decent sleep in weeks. The training he’d been through was strenuous at best, not to mention all he had exerted in the past three days. Maybe Draco will suggest a Dreamless Sleep to him.

Behind him, he hears a curse and Lucius saying, “You can’t expect to get it on your first try!”

“You’re expecting a little much of yourself, don’t you think?” Draco asks as he turns to face the pair of them. The expression on Potter’s face makes it look as if Draco has turned on him. “What I mean is that you’ve exerted a lot of power lately, and haven’t had the time to recharge properly. Perhaps try again in a bit? After you actually get some sleep this time?”

Potter’s shoulders slump. “Fine,” he says, and collapses down onto the couch. Lucius looks at him for a moment before crossing the room and approaching Draco.

“You two are quite close, I take it?” he asks, quietly enough that Potter is unable to hear them.

Draco feels the heat rise in his cheeks. “Not – not terribly close. But, yeah, we get on.” He’s not about to tell his father how _well_ they get on. He knows he’s downplaying their relationship, but he doesn’t want to give too much away too soon. For one, he’s unsure of how his father would react. For another, if there’s even the slightest chance that Lucius plans on turning on them, he doesn’t want to be handing Lucius weapons.

Draco holds his father’s stare until Lucius gives a small nod. “I think, perhaps, that he is trying too hard. Don’t you?”

Draco blinks and looks over to where Potter is sitting on the couch. His legs are folded beneath him, his head resting on the back of the couch and exposing the pale column of his throat. Draco is surprised that he’s always taken aback by the contrast between the darkness of Potter’s lashes and hair against his skin. His eyes provide a spot of colour, so very clear and expressive. Potter’s quite thin and looks shorter than he should, but he’s exquisite, powerful and strong-willed. It strikes Draco how far in he is with Potter; he’s not about to give him up.

Lucius coughs beside him, regaining Draco’s attention. Recalling the question, Draco says, “Yes, I suppose so. But I think that’s also something that’s inexplicably him.”

“Be that as it may, I think there’s too much pressure in the room. Perhaps he’s feeling he has to make a point, or feeling he has to prove that he’s not worthless or some such rubbish?”

Draco opens his mouth to refute Lucius’ claim, but stops. Potter had said something once along those lines. It seemed like ages ago now. “You want me to leave,” he says, looking at his father suspiciously.

“Just for a few moments,” Lucius says. “I want the opportunity to speak to the boy without… interruptions.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “Fine. I’ll be outside then.” He strides across the room and towards the front door. He sees Potter look up out of the corner of his eye, and Potter’s “What?” is cut off by the sharp snap the door makes as Draco closes it behind himself.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

Draco looks up and sees Potter standing before him, supporting himself on the outer wall of the house. He takes a cautious step forwards and then eases himself onto the bench beside Draco.

“What do you mean, ‘what am I doing’?” Draco asks, looking back over at the path that leads into the surrounding forest. It’s littered with leaves and is half covered by the undergrowth, looking as abandoned as the rest of the area. Draco had thought that if his father was going to have a safe house, he’d at least have made a house elf take care of the place. Though, Draco supposes, with no one but Lucius knowing the location, it’s probably safer. And he wouldn’t have trusted a house elf with the knowledge, or to keep it quiet.

“You left abruptly. And you don’t sound so happy now. What are you thinking about?” Potter’s thigh is pressed up beside Draco’s, the warmth from it making Draco notice the chill of the air.

Draco shrugs and leans back in his seat. “Nothing important,” he lies. “What did you talk about with my father?”

Potter doesn’t answer him right away. His profile gives nothing away when Draco looks over at him. “He just… wanted to make sure of some things. He’s worried about you,” Potter says, finally looking over at Draco.

“Worried,” Draco says, doubtfully.

“Well, he didn’t exactly put it that way,” Potter says, his cheeks heating. “He just wanted to make sure that someone else has your back.”

“I don’t think it’s me that needs to have my back watched. But,” Draco heaves a fake sigh, “if it has to be someone, better off that it’s you.” Beside him, Potter’s lips twitch into the smallest of smiles.

Draco looks at him critically for a moment. He doesn’t think it’s just the lack of sleep anymore that has Potter acting odd, or the remembrance of his dream that’s making him distant. He’d been fine before… before they had….

Draco swallows, and putting a hand on his shoulder, says, “Potter.” Potter looks at him briefly before he’s once more examining the dehydrated flowerbeds, but Draco catches his chin, drawing Potter’s face back around so they’re face to face. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Potter says, much too quickly for Draco’s liking. It sounds too much like the ‘nothing’ Draco had given before.

Draco leans forwards and brushes his lips against Potter’s, still not over the thrill that he’s able to do so. He slides his hand until it rests at the back of Potter’s neck, rubbing his thumb over the smooth skin behind Potter’s ear. He tugs a little playfully on a strand of Potter’s hair.

Draco has to restrain himself from groaning when Potter pulls back a little, just enough to say, “But your father–”

“He’s not the type to watch us out a window, Potter, and I think he suspects something anyway. He’s not an idiot,” Draco says, and pulls Potter in for another kiss.

Potter sinks into it, opening his mouth at Draco’s prodding and returning the kiss with equal fervour. Draco relaxes as he feels Potter wrapping an arm around his waist, drawing them closer together, clinging almost. Draco twists, trying to get closer to Potter, trying to get as much of him as he can, bringing his other hand up to frame Potter’s face.

But Potter’s pulling away again, and Draco knows he will _not_ like this, whatever it is that is going to happen, whatever Potter will say. His nip on Potter’s lip isn’t as gentle as he would have preferred.

Potter worms his way out of Draco’s grasp and stands up from the bench. His hair has been mussed by Draco’s fingers, his breath a little short as it leaves from lips that are just a little swollen. “Draco,” he says in between gasps of air, “I – not right now.”

“Right,” says Draco, trying not to listen to what his brain is telling him. “Right, you should get some sleep. There’ll be more opportunities later, when you have the energy.”

Draco ignores the small wince Potter gives. “Maybe not later, either,” he says quietly as Draco stands as well.

Draco stops moving entirely. “Not later? Or not _ever again_?”

Potter looks stunned at his words, as if Draco had just struck him. “I didn’t mean never, it’s just that – that there’s something I haven’t told you, and I don’t want to hur–”

“There always seems to be something you haven’t told me,” Draco cuts him off. “I can understand if this is some form of guilt over starting another relationship. Or was it just supposed to be a one off?” Potter shakes his head adamantly, and Draco folds his arms together. “Then you’re pushing me away.” Draco’s suspicions are confirmed as Potter steadfastly refuses to look at him, hiding his face behind his fringe.

“Then you’re a better actor than I thought you were. It genuinely seemed like it was something you wanted,” Draco says, his voice dangerously low.

Potter’s head shoots up. “I do want this! It’s just, I – I can’t….” At a loss for words, he shrugs helplessly.

“Then why?” Draco demands.

Potter doesn’t answer, remaining quiet in this, just as he’s been with so many other things. Draco doesn’t think that Potter’s about to explain himself in this as he has before; he won’t be as open with Draco. Draco steps away from him.

“Well,” Draco says, “it doesn’t appear as though you’re about to keep a watchful eye on my back now, does it? If you can’t even look at me.” Potter is extremely pale when he looks up at Draco, and Draco has to hide his concern behind a sneer. “I suggest you get some sleep, Potter,” he says, turning back to re-enter the house, “if you’re going to learn how to Apparate.”

He doesn’t hear it when Potter enters after him. Draco is already in the shower, water streaming down his face and beating at his back.

* * *

It’s quiet without finding an excuse to talk to Potter or be near him. It’s the sort of thing Draco’s experienced before and never wished to again; to realise the full impact that one thing has on your life, and to notice how important it is to you once it’s gone. He’d gone through it before when he’d turned away from the life he’d thought his father had been leading him into, as well as his father himself.

But the loss of that had allowed him to get Potter. And now it seems that he’s exchanging Potter for his father again.

He can never have both, it seems.

Lucius and Potter have moved their Apparition lesson outside, taking advantage of the warm fall day. Draco hides inside and fusses with the teapot, wanders aimlessly through the house, opening cupboards and drawers and peering about. The house has the bare essentials and little else. Packets of tea, food that’s carefully preserved, small bottles of soaps and cleansers. What it does have is a large collection of healing potions, burn ointments and the like. He takes a few of each.

Draco’s by himself until dusk, when Potter and his father finally enter the house. Draco doesn’t look up from the text he’s been staring blankly at for the last hour.

He can’t resist peeking out though, when Potter throws himself down on the chaise across from him. Potter has his arms crossed over his chest and a half anxious, half frustrated expression fixed to his face, looking as if it’s permanent.

“It’s not something you can grasp in one day, no matter how skilled you may think yourself,” Lucius says, closing the front door behind him. “So stop acting so childishly over it.”

“I’m not acting childishly,” Potter says, but seems to realise that even that statement is juvenile. His glower increases. Draco shifts his book so it covers Potter, blocking him from view.

“I think, Potter, that you should focus more on the promises you make, and make sure that you follow through on them,” Lucius says from where he stands. He turns with a whirl of his cloak and heads for the kitchen. Draco sighs. He knows he should go after his father and put on a pot of tea. It’s something he had grown used to in his time at Grimmauld and with the Order. He’d never had a reason to do so before, always having house elves around to do it for him. Lucius, on the other hand….

“Draco,” Potter says as Draco levers himself out of his chair. “Look, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Draco closes his eyes for a moment, then looks over at Potter. “This is getting ridiculous. You don’t _need_ to tell me anything, Potter, don’t worry. For now let’s put this all aside, shall we?” Lucius had been only half right when he had berated Potter. Draco has been acting childishly too, and that is something they cannot afford at this point in time. “I’m sure we can settle everything later.”

Potter looks as if he’s torn between wanting to say two different things. Draco can’t – _won’t_ – let himself dwell on what they could be. He nods eventually though, slowly, and Draco relaxes just a little bit.

“Tea, then?” he asks, and sweeps from the room before Potter can say anything else.

* * *

“We should go soon,” Potter says as they sit together at the table a few days later, picking at old biscuits. It was the first day he had managed a successful Apparition, and Draco is reluctant to beat off his proud smirk, regardless of the tension between them.

“I dare say you need more practise than just managing to Apparate once,” Lucius says, disdain dripping from every word. Draco recognises this from when his father gave him the odd lesson. He had never allowed a single achievement to get to Draco’s head, instead making sure that Draco had a good grasp on the concept. What Lucius lacks in some areas, he makes up for in others. “Do you honestly think you can manage it?” Lucius continues. “Apparating three people is harder than just Apparating yourself.”

“I’ll manage. Sooner is better than later.” The table before Potter is showered with crumbs as he bites into a dry biscuit. Lucius stares pointedly at the pile that has grown in front of Potter from the number of biscuits he’s had. Draco stands and busies himself with the teapot at the counter.

“Very well, then.” Lucius stands. With a sharp flick of his wand, he dispels the crumbs on the table. With another flick, he also clears the collection dotting Potter’s shirt. Potter jerks in surprise and stares after Lucius as he leaves the room. “I suggest you get ready, then.”

Draco leans back against the counter and examines Potter as he stares down at the table. He stretches his legs out before him and crosses his arms before saying, “We’d best not rush into this blindly, Potter.”

Potter looks over at him, but doesn’t meet his eyes completely. “I know,” he says. “But we’ve stayed here long enough. It would be nice to be on the move again.”

Draco sighs, pushes away from the counter and reclaims his previously vacated seat. With a flick of his wand, he has their mugs filled to the brim with fresh tea. Potter murmurs his thanks as he scoops in sugar and stirs, lifts the cup to his lips and blows gently across the surface, then takes a careful sip.

As Draco watches, he knows there’s no way he’s ever going to be able to give up on Potter. He watches as Potter sets down the mug, twirling it on the table in circles. He just hopes that the end of this war will come smoothly and swiftly.

“Potter,” he starts, but Potter cuts him off.

“I’m sorry,” Potter blurts. He’s looking down into his tea, now smoothing his thumb over the porcelain of the cup. His knuckles are white as he clutches at the delicate handle, his other hand pressed into the table. “I hadn’t wanted to – I didn’t think about what I was saying.”

“That’s for sure,” Draco mutters, making Potter pause and look at him. Draco sighs at the expression on Potter’s face and feels besieged by guilt. “It’s not anyone’s fault – neither of ours.”

Potter reaches across the table and clasps Draco’s hand. “If we’re going to go back into the thick of this, I’d prefer we weren’t at odds. No matter what you say, if we can’t even look at each other, how are we supposed to fight alongside one another?”

Draco concedes that he has a point. He sighs and turns his hand over so that he can return Potter’s grip. “What was it you were going to say to me? Before?”

Potter blinks and says, “Oh. Umm… that I had never wanted to hurt you.” He looks away as a light flush begins to creep across his cheekbones. “And that – well, that in the end, it’s him or me. That this thing does need to be settled between me and Voldemort.”

Draco’s stomach clenches. He knew that that was probably the way things were bound to happen, but hearing it like this, having it confirmed, is a whole new level. His hand clenches down on Potter’s.

“Well, I’ve been right in there with you. Don’t think I’m about to stop that.” He stands and pulls Potter up as well, who looks a little startled. “I’ve said that I was going to keep you safe. And you can be sure I’m not going to go back on my word.”

Before Potter can blink, Draco presses a quick kiss to his forehead, and is out of the room.

* * *

The crack of their Apparition rings through the air, and they are greeted by heavy rain. With the clouds as thick as they are, midday feels more like midnight. As quick as Lucius is in erecting an umbrella charm, they still manage to get drenched, their robes soaked and heavy. It reminds Draco of the cove, and he hopes that this expedition goes over much better than the last.

Potter looks a little sick where he stands beside Draco. The rain has made his hair stick to his forehead, obscuring his scar and making it appear darker than normal, and he looks far too pale. He’s been extremely pale ever since their escape from the dungeon, Draco realises.

They’ve landed on a distant hilltop beside a rundown house, ivy growing unchecked up its sides. A few of the windows are broken, leaving the inside of the house exposed to the elements. The graveyard stretches along the bottom of the hill, a yew tree growing at its centre.

“Where is this object we’re looking for supposed to be?” Lucius asks curtly, looking over at Potter with a critical eye.

“It’s….” Potter frowns, scanning the area below them through the rain. He turns and looks back up at the house, looking more and more unbalanced as time passes.

“You do know where it is, don’t you?” Lucius asks, much too snidely for Draco’s liking.

“I know it’s here for sure,” Potter snaps back. “Just… we need to look around, is all.”

“Right,” says Draco, trying to dispel the hostility the rising tempers have caused. “Why not start with the house since we’re up here?” Potter gives a slow nod and takes a hesitant step forward.

Draco comes up beside him and leans close, asking in a hushed whisper, “Can you see anything?”

Potter shakes his head. “Not a thing.” His next step forward is deliberate, the ground squelching underneath and the mud sticking to his boot. “There’s nothing magical here, or at least, nothing readily seen. He may have set up additional protections.” But he sounds unsure.

“You don’t think it’s a trap or anything, do you?” Draco asks as they circle around the house, trying to find a door inside through the overgrown plants. In front of them, Lucius is muttering spell after spell at the house, cutting away the ivy.

“I hope not. That’s one of the last things we need now,” Potter says.

Lucius’ satisfied voice calls back at them. “There’s an entrance here,” he says, slashing his wand through the air and cutting the growth away from a rotted door. His face twists as the wood comes into view, and he moves the door inwards with his wand gingerly. Lucius beckons them forward, lights his wand, and strides through the door ahead of them. Potter throws an apprehensive look at Draco. He gets caught in the vines a little, catching himself on the door jam and making the wood creak loudly under his hand.

Lucius’ wand illuminates the inside of the house, and Draco curses. “What?” Potter asks hurriedly.

The house is a wreck. As Lucius walks deeper into the house, there’s the skitter of small animal feet against the wood. The light from his wand reveals floorboards that are warped or missing, plaster crumbling off the walls and the ceiling is caving. It looks as if part of the upstairs has collapsed, either from natural causes or an explosion. The air smells of neglect and mould, with a thick undertone of decay. Draco covers his mouth with his hand.

“You can’t see anything?” Draco asks Potter quietly. He eyes the uneven ground before them.

Potter gives a minute shake of his head. “No. Well, I can see you and Lucius – your magic – but other than that, no.” Potter bites his lip. “Even that is more muted than normal.”

Draco doesn’t want to dwell on that for too long. “Here,” he says, and steadies Potter with a hand on his elbow. “The floor’s really rough.”

“I don’t–” Potter begins, but Draco hushes him. Lucius hardly spares a glance for them, looking through the rubble and rot.

“I hardly think the Dark Lord would hide anything in here,” he says, holding his robes up and off the grubby floor. Lucius stares up the rickety staircase that leads to the second floor. “There would be some sort of sign, would there not?” He sniffs, his nose wrinkling as he inhales.

Potter keeps his eyes focused on where Lucius is standing and makes his way over to him. Draco watches, ready to catch Potter lest he stumble or lose his footing. But Potter remains steady, only missing a step once where the floor sinks under his weight.

“We’d best make sure anyway, don’t you think?” Potter asks when he’s reached Lucius. “Just to make sure?”

“Fine, I suppose so,” Lucius says. There’s a look of distaste on his face as he steadies the stairs with a swish of his wand and begins to climb. Potter follows after him and each creak of the stair makes Draco cringe.

There’s nothing much at all at the top. The rooms are empty and dust-filled, and just as deteriorated as the rest of the house. Potter shakes his head as they move from room to room, stepping gingerly and they eventually make their way back downstairs.

The air, when Draco steps out of the house, is fresh. He breathes in deeply, trying to get rid of the overpowering smell of decay. Potter clears the threshold of the doorway without stumbling this time and moves out of the way for Lucius.

“You said for sure that it would be here?” Lucius asks, slanting his eyes at Potter, who stands on the top of the hill looking bereft.

“There’s still the graveyard,” Potter says, and sets off down the hill. Lucius throws Draco a look before he and Draco follow, trying to keep their balance on the wet slope, the hem of their robes getting soaked.

Potter circles a headstone, a pensive look on his face as he examines the marking and the area before it. Lucius is standing off to the side, keeping his eyes on the black patch of grass just before the headstone, a sick expression on his face.

Draco goes over to the back of the headstone, avoiding looking at the name that he knows must be on the front. It wasn’t something he wished to know, or to have confirmed. Potter is crouched before it, his eyes screwed shut as if trying to recall a distant memory.

“There’s a tomb,” he says, his head snapping up to look at Draco. “It’s a little ways away, but close enough that it should be no problem getting there.”

Draco gives Potter a hand up, repressing a shiver as Potter’s cold hand meets his. “Where is it?” he asks, and looks over at the grove of trees Potter points towards. There is indeed a small stone tomb hidden away between the trees, the drooping branches nearly blocking it from view.

Potter sets off towards it, the mud squelching under his boots and his hair plastered to his head. Draco would wonder how Potter knows where he’s going, but he knows better than to ask that. He follows after Potter, his father bringing up the rear and looking over his shoulder now and then, his wand twitching from side to side as he keeps a look out for danger.

“How do you plan on getting us inside that, Mr Potter?” Lucius asks, eyes still darting to the shadows that the storm has introduced to the graveyard.

“Easy,” Potter breathes, his hands coming up and resting on the slab of rock that blocks the entrance. Draco sees that glow spread from between Potter’s hands and the stone, feels a small flare of heat as the spells cast on the stone are peeled away. Lucius tears his eyes away from the rest of the graveyard and watches as the stone melts away with the rain.

Potter looks triumphant, looking into the depths of the tomb with satisfaction. Draco hears a hiss, like something moving in the grass or an escape of air, and feels a pronounced chill from the rain.

Potter steps forward, the darkness swallowing him before he is even more than one full step inside. Draco curses and lights his wand, hurrying after Potter and wondering how it is he can just charge ahead into a situation.

The air in here is no better than the air was in the house, though the smell of decay is more apparent here. It’s small and cramped, smaller than the bedrooms at Grimmauld Place, even. Draco brushes cobwebs away from his face, shakes them off of the sleeves of his robes and does not want to think about how many there must be in his hair from just entering the tomb.

There’s a small case in the far back of the tomb, tucked away in a crevice and barely visible from the light that shines from the tip of Draco’s wand. He grabs hold of the back of Potter’s robes, stopping him from moving forwards. “Think, Potter,” Draco hisses into his ear. “He’s most surely got protections around it. And if you’re having difficulties with seeing magic as it is, think a little more?”

He feels Potter twist, trying to break the hold Draco has on him. “I know that,” Potter hisses back. He glances over Draco’s shoulder, to where Lucius stands in the entry, silhouetted by the dreary fall of rain behind him and the grey light filtering in around him.

“Are we doing this or aren’t we?” Lucius asks.

Draco releases his hold on Potter’s robes, but moves in front of him before Potter can move towards the case again. “Value, Potter,” he says, and scans the ground before him carefully as he walks. He hears Potter huff an annoyed breath, but he doesn’t object any more.

Draco approaches the case slowly, trying to get the light from his wand to shine brighter, reveal more. The ground here is even, though heavily littered with small bones. There’s nothing he can see that would form a protection around the area, no spell residues or anchors. There is just the case, and a dull humming noise.

Potter is pressed up behind him, peering over his shoulder as they stop before the case. Draco feels a stirring, feels heat rise up in him even in this dreadful place; Potter’s breaths tickle against the back of his neck, the movements of his chest, his scent. Draco pushes down on his urge to turn around, to bury his hands in his hair and kiss him breathless. For one thing, now is clearly not the time, and for another, Draco’s once again unsure of how Potter would take that. He hates the uncertainty.

The case is no bigger than a large textbook, sitting innocuously on a pedestal, the humming noise the only thing off about it. Draco moves his wand back and forth over it, hearing the hum change pitch and warble slightly as he passes over the top left hand corner. He taps that area with his wand, feels a spark shoot up his wand and down to his elbow, and he jerks away.

Potter slams a hand down on the case, and the pitch of the hum increases. Draco hears Potter hiss, sees his hand turn white with pressure as he presses it down against the wood of the case and that light that accompanies Potter’s magic flares up again. It’s a little more muted than before, holding a darker tinge to it that Draco doesn’t particularly care for.

Just as he’s about to reach for Potter’s wrist and pull him away, there’s a click and the lock on the case falls off, falling to the floor with a dull thunk. Potter removes his hand and quickly turns away, leaving Draco free to break the last of he enchantments, ease the lid open and claim the contents.

The cup rests on a cushion of deep red fabric that could be passed off as black, but Draco is sickeningly reminded of dried blood. Wary of touching it, he levitates the cup out of the case and into a small, conjured sack. There’s a sense of relief at having it, even as it weighs heavily in the bag. From what he can make out in the gloom, Potter’s face is a sickly grey, features twisted in disgust and pain.

“Done?” Lucius asks, still hovering in the entry. It doesn’t look as if he’s moved, only shifted enough to be able to examine both the graveyard and the tomb. Draco eyes him, still suspicious about his father and where his loyalties truly lie, though Draco is pretty sure they will always rest with Lucius himself.

Potter heads towards the entry. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, his robes pulled tightly around him and his hands bundled in the fabric. He stalks over to where Lucius still stands, and Lucius turns, allowing a small breath of wet air to creep in around him, which Draco inhales greedily.

Lucius takes one step away from the tomb and stops, making Potter nearly run into him. Draco can see the tension that’s appeared so suddenly in his father’s frame, and Draco feels his insides twist. Unable to see around both Potter and his father, and in the gloom that severely hampers his vision, he can only assume the worst.

“I’m surprised at you, Lucius.”

A shiver runs down Draco’s spine as he hears the high, cold voice. No, not now – not when they’ve finally gotten the last piece. There’s no way the Dark Lord could be here now.

But all of his denials go for naught. His father steps forwards, and Draco doesn’t hear exactly what it is he says, only able to distinguish vague meanings. ‘ _Hoped you would find us here, my Lord_ ,’ and ‘ _was able to find out valuable information from them_.’

He pulls Potter back by the collar of his robes before he has the chance to set a foot out into the dull mid-day light. There’s no way he’s allowing Potter to waltz out there, not when the Dark Lord waits on the other side.

His father couldn’t have been trusted, it seems. Potter had been mistaken; not entirely his fault though, Draco’s sure. Lucius is a very adept liar, has been doing it for years; he knows exactly how to lie and to whom. Draco feels a pit of fury bubble in his stomach. He allowed himself to be hoodwinked – by his own _father_ – even when he had suspected it from the start.

“We need to get you out of here,” Draco whispers to Potter as Lucius continues to prostrate himself before his _Lord_. He hopes that they remain significantly distracted. “Look, I’ll offer a distraction, you need to Apparate off to Hogwarts, get to Dumbledore or Granger or someone.”

Potter meets his look head on. “I’m not leaving you behind,” he says, and despite his low volume, his determination shows through strong. “And your father–”

Draco doesn’t want to hear it – _can’t_ bear to hear it. He cuts Potter off. “Stay back,” he says, and shoves Potter behind him. Potter gives an outraged squeak, begins to continue what he had started to say, but never gets the chance to finish.

“I’ll deal with you later, Lucius.” There is dark promise in the Dark Lord’s voice, and if Draco wasn’t already so furious with him, he’d be concerned for Lucius. “For now,” he hisses, “Potter must come out of his hidey-hole.”

Potter moves to exit, but Draco pushes him back again. “Apparate,” he whispers over his shoulder to Potter, before he steps out and is greeted by the rain and malevolent eyes. He pays no attention to where his – where _Lucius_ stands off to the side. He knows that he is not in the way, and that is all Draco is concerned with.

The Dark Lord smiles at him, and Draco suppresses a shudder. “You’ve just managed to make things more difficult on yourself, dear Malfoy boy. Never fear though, Lord Voldemort can be merciful… if you heed my rules. Now, move aside. Like your father, I will deal with you properly later.”

It is as if he is looking through Draco, trying to get a good glimpse of Potter. Draco won’t let him though, standing firmly in the way, even when Potter pushes at his back, trying to get Draco to move aside.

“For _fuck’s sake_ , Draco,” Potter hisses, and Draco sees the corner of Voldemort’s mouth move up in a smile. He takes a halting step forwards, feeling the pressure of both Potter at his back and the Dark Lord’s magic drawing him in, farther away from Potter.

He snarls, but his feet move despite his efforts to stop them from doing so. He’s once more soaked head to toe, not that he had ever dried properly before. It doesn’t escape his notice that the Dark Lord remains perfectly dry, the rain slipping off his robes as easily as it would on a window pane.

The Dark Lord switches his attention to Potter, who is squeezing past Draco, dismissing Draco completely.

“It is about time,” Voldemort says to Potter, that eerie voice as sharp as the rain that assaults them. Potter is standing still, unmoving as the Dark Lord examines him. “One has to wonder how you’ve managed to evade my notice for so long.”

“Magic,” Potter says, and the Dark Lord sneers.

“Yes, indeed. _Magic_.” The word is almost spat out between them, as if the Dark Lord is condescending about the very fact that Potter has access to this gift as well. He spins, his dark robes billowing about him and causing droplets of rain to jump away from him and join the surrounding shower. “I take it you know where you are, do you not, Harry Potter? No? Well, that is no matter; you have no need to know, really, not when I am about to kill you.”

He stands in the middle of the graveyard, in the exact centre of the black area of ground, where no green grass grows.

Draco feels the fury bubble within him; he had sworn that Potter was not about to get hurt – or Merlin forbid, _die_ – on his watch. It is his anger that allows him to overcome whatever spell it was that the Dark Lord had placed on him, that made it so that Draco could be moved as easily as a puppet on strings.

His hand latches down on Potter’s wrist, preventing him from getting any closer to the Dark Lord. He feels the stares of them all, focusing on him, and he fights to keep his head up and his back straight. The Dark Lord sneers.

“You think to hold him back?” He chuckles. “So be it.”

With a quick movement, the Dark Lord has his wand in his hand before Draco even realises what is happening. He drags Potter out of the way, hears the spell crack the stone of the tomb where they had been moments before. Potter loses his footing on the slick grass, bringing Draco down with him. Acting on instinct, Draco rolls them, feeling the heat from the Dark Lord’s spells and the cold laughter ringing in his ears.

“I had hoped for a proper duel, dear Harry!” he is saying, mirth lacing the cold of his voice. “It must have been quite the spellwork that kept you hidden from me. But I do not make mistakes!” He cackles, and Draco wishes never to hear a sound like it again so long as he lives.

Potter is struggling, trying to get his wand from wherever it is he has stored it. “Would you just let me–” he starts, and breaks off when the blast of a spell covers them with pieces from a headstone.

“You think you can do it now?” Draco hisses back at him, using the sounds of crumbling rock to mask his voice. “I don’t think so. His _soul_ , Potter, remember!”

Potter looks ashen, and Draco knows the moment when he realises that even if they destroy the Dark Lord’s body, he still would not die, not without the deaths of his Horcruxes as well. Draco sees him swallow, peer around the edge of the headstone and take stock of the scene.

“Fine,” he says, and even though Draco can’t hear him, he knows that the Dark Lord is drawing closer to their broken shield of stone. “Hogwarts?”

“First opportunity you get.”

“ _We_ get,” Potter corrects. Draco nods stiffly.

Once he’s assured Potter will leave and head back to Hogwarts, Draco darts out from behind the headstone, throwing the first spell he thinks of at the Dark Lord. It is deflected easily, sent spiralling off into the downpour.

Potter has his wand in hand now, and they try to drive Voldemort back, only just succeeding in keeping him at bay, the two of them matching him move for move. On the edge of his vision, Draco can just make out Lucius, edging closer slowly. Draco is unable to make out where his wand is, and it makes him nervous. He had thought – so easily played, was he – that Lucius was truly on their side.

The Dark Lord is playing with them, all until his next spell, a jet of acid green that soars through the air like Death on wings. It just barely misses them, and Draco knows that it is now or never for their chance to get out. They’ve got the cup; they need nothing else here.

Potter clasps his hand, but he does not turn, like Draco expects him to. Instead, it is as if he is waiting for someone to join them, and Draco cannot properly think. _No, not now. He won’t_ –

But Potter is clearly waiting for Lucius, who is now almost upon them, sneaking out of the view of his Master. Draco is too focused on him, hoping against hope that what his father has said has not been lies, that he misses the Dark Lord firing off his signature spell again.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

All Draco is aware of is the fact that there is no way to get out of the way in time. He’s so fixated on that jet of light, watching it come towards him, that it doesn’t occur to him what the consequences are. He feels a tug on his hand, and he’s dimly aware that Potter is pulling him away, preparing to Apparate. But movement from the corner of his eye steals his attention.

Lucius appears in front of him, directly in line with the spell, and for a moment, Draco’s not sure what to make of it. His father looks back at him, just as the spell collides with his chest, the light being absorbed by the material of his robes and flaring upon impact, just as Potter completes the turn and the squeeze of Apparition begins.

The last thing he sees is his father, the look on Lucius’ face and the expression in his eyes. For that one moment, Draco knows without a doubt that his father had been telling the truth in the safe house. He’s never seen pride on Lucius’ face, and certainly not directed at him.

The light dies, the flare fades, and both Draco and Potter disappear, the Dark Lord’s outraged shriek ringing alongside the thunder.


	6. Calamity

Draco stumbles, but Potter’s hold on him never loosens, and Draco immediately regrets that he learned how to Apparate. Once he’s got air in his lungs, the anger explodes out of him.

“How could you?” he hisses, shaking Potter’s hold off of him. “You left him behind! How could you do that?” He refuses to believe what he has seen, all but wipes it from his mind and twists the circumstances into ones that he can live with. He doesn’t realise that he’s yelling, his words being swallowed by the rain here as well. “We can still go back, we can still get him! The Dark Lord surely won’t – can’t have – have – that can’t have been–” He can’t finish the thought. His mind refuses to come to terms with what he had witnessed.

“I’m sorry, Draco!” Potter yells back at him. Draco’s not sure if it’s just the rain streaming down Potter’s cheeks, or tears. “I made a promise to him, to not let you get hurt. No matter what.”

Draco crumples, uncaring about where they are or who can see them, or even if they’re safe. The only thing he can focus on is the image of his father’s face as he looked over his shoulder at Draco, for the last time.

Potter has his arms wrapped around Draco’s shoulders as they shake. Dimly, Draco recognizes the fact that Potter is crying just as hard, clinging to Draco as surely as Draco is clinging to him, and he fists Potter’s wet robes.

“I hadn’t even kept it for an hour,” Potter whispers into his hair. Draco distantly remembers being shooed out of the safe house, his father wanting to have a word with Potter. And not long after, Potter’s words to him. “I’m so sorry.”

Draco shoves him away, but his hands are still clutching at Potter’s robes, refusing to relinquish their grasp. “I had just gotten him back. Less than a week – a bloody _week_ , Potter. And you _left_ him there. Who knows what the Dark Lord will do to him! With his – his–”

“He would have killed you as well,” Potter interrupts him. “If we had stayed there any longer, neither of us would have gotten away. And then what? All of this would have been for nothing!” His hands come up and hold Draco’s where they still fist Potter’s robes. Potter holds them tightly, as if he’s trying to steady Draco, be someone Draco can lean on.

Draco has to admit that Potter is right, and it’s something he really doesn’t want to dwell on. He’ll deal with it later; he’s not in the right frame of mind to do it now. He knows that if he tries, he’ll most likely drive himself mad. So he shoves it to the back of his mind and tries to distract himself by forcing himself to take in his surroundings, trying to figure out if they are at least in friendly territory.

They’re not far outside of Hogwarts, Draco realises. He recognises the path, the forest closing in on them from either side. It’s nearly the same place where he and Potter had been taken by surprise by the Death Eaters. It seems like so long ago now, when it has only been a matter of a few weeks.

“Come on,” Potter says, carefully supporting Draco as he pulls him up. Draco’s loose under his hands, feeling hollow and empty as Potter guides him up the path and towards the castle.

The path seems longer than Draco remembers it being. Even so, they reach the gates faster than Draco is prepared for. He keeps his eyes on the ground, watching out for any irregularities. They stumble their way up to the castle, though, and Draco’s not even sure if he’s seeing the ground before him, or what he remembers from walking this path so many times before.

The gates are open, only a little, and it makes Draco uneasy. He doesn’t remember the gates ever being open this late. But the grounds are calm; there is nothing unusual about the sounds that greet them from the Forest or from the school.

Draco only knows when they’ve come into view of the castle when Potter’s arms tighten around him. There’s a brief moment where Draco feels a surge of anger – that Potter can be so happy and relaxed at this moment, _excited_ to reach Hogwarts. In his mind, there’s nothing to be excited about. It’s a bloody castle, and there are far more important matters going on.

Draco’s not sure if the anger changes to be directed at everything that has happened lately, or if it is just intensifying on Potter, but it gives him the strength to stand and move away from him. He feels Potter’s hand slip away from around his shoulders and ignores the cold wash of air that accompanies it.

“I’d prefer it if we didn’t dawdle,” he says, and increases his strides until it feels like he’s almost running towards the castle, the one place that he has felt completely safe in for several years, and away from everything else.

He hears Potter make an objection, but it’s snatched away by the wind in his ears. The anger coursing through him is goading him into moving faster, and he no longer wants to go into the school. Rather, he turns and makes a beeline for the lake.

“Draco!”

Draco turns to look over his shoulder, his steps wavering only a little. It takes him a moment to find Potter in the gloom and with how bad his vision has gotten in the past few moments, and he doesn’t think it’s just the rain. He rubs a hand over his face and it comes away wet.

The lake reflects his mood, tossing and turning with the wind, the surface so uneasy that it’s at odds with Draco’s memories of sun and mirror-still water. He ignores the beat of the rain on his shoulders, how it makes his clothes feel heavy and weighs him down.

He only knows when Potter reaches him when he all but barrels into Draco’s back. He sways a little when Potter collides with him, the slick grass making his footing even more unsteady than normal. Draco feels a pang of guilt that sinks heavily in his stomach.

Potter grips his upper arm, pressing the wet material to his skin. He feels the odd droplet roll down the inside of his sleeve, cold and wet against his arm. It’s as if that’s the only thing he’s allowed to feel anymore.

Potter slides his hand down and interlaces their fingers. “Come up to the castle with me, please? We’ve – we’ll be able to get through it.”

 _Later_ , Draco thinks. _Deal with it all later. You can’t now, and you know it_. He gives a determined nod and returns Potter’s grip. “Sorry,” he says, and his voice is rough.

Potter shakes his head. “There’s nothing for you to apologise over.” And Draco figures, if there’s anyone who would understand, it would be Potter.

“Right, well as you said,” Draco says, swallowing thickly, and motions towards the castle. He can just make out the lights shining in windows through the thick sheet of rain, the light barely reaching the ground in small square patches. “We should….”

Potter doesn’t let go of his hand as they pick their way up the slope to get to the entrance, and it’s a solid warmth against his icy palm, seeming to burn its way into Draco. He reminds himself that Potter is here with him, and it’s hard to imagine a time when he wouldn’t be.

Though Potter doesn’t say anything, or give any indication of his thoughts, Draco knows he’s trying to take in as much as he can about the castle. Maybe it’s that Draco is so well attuned to Potter now that he’s able to come to such a conclusion. “What’s in there that you see?” he asks in an effort to distract himself.

“Lots of things,” Potter says. “There are so many layers and passages and connections, making it look as if all the magic is connected, like a giant web. Age is so prominent here: the castle, the occupants, the spells and enchantments. How it all weaves together, combining into new things and twisting into different combinations… it’s fascinating.”

Draco has only heard Potter speak about magic in that way once before: when he was describing Draco’s magic to him. With that undertone of wonder and adoration, like he could never tire of watching it.

He chuckles a little, and even to himself it sounds hollow. “Wish I could see it,” he says, even though he knows that it’s never possible. Potter squeezes his hand and he knows they’re both thinking the same thing. In the long run, it might not be in his best interests, and it’s not something Draco wants to risk.

They ascend the stairs slowly, dragging out the time before the meetings they know they’ll be thrust into. The warmth from the Entrance Hall hits them, making their clothes feel colder as they stick to them and weigh them down heavily. Draco fights off a shiver, but only just. It’s easy to cast quick drying and warming charms for them, and he does so mechanically. Potter mumbles a quiet thanks.

There are still a few older students out and about, walking through the halls with book bags, their only concerns half finished essays and how much of an impact the weather will have on the next Quidditch match. Most of the students they come across avoid making eye contact, shying away and melting into the shadows. They’re no stranger to seeing older wizards and witches entering the castle, and Draco can’t help but think that they depend a bit too much on the security of the castle. It’s never failed them before though, so why question it? Not yet, anyways.

The whispers of the ones who do not look away follow them through the hallways, seeming so loud in the stone corridors. For such a large building, it’s almost alarmingly quiet, as if the students know something is not quite right.

Draco’s finding it hard to concentrate at the moment and he’s not thinking very clearly. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to remember the password up to Dumbledore’s office, or if they should just find another professor. It strikes him how very unprepared they are, and increases his feelings of uselessness. His steps seem to drag over the flagstones, he and Potter hugging the castle walls; Potter’s hand makes a soft scraping noise against the stone as he drags it along the wall beside him.

Draco’s too busy examining the stairs beneath his feet to notice Severus until he speaks. “Draco, Mr Potter.” His head comes up, eyes locking immediately with the professor’s before they slide over to examine Potter. “We were beginning to get worried.”

“No way we could have gotten a hold of you,” Potter says, and a pair of students look over at him. “Couldn’t risk contact.”

“Yes, we realised that, thank you,” Severus says curtly, but Potter doesn’t look intimidated by him. Severus glares at the kids until they pick up their pace and turn the corner. “Come,” he says, and turns with a whirl of black robes as he heads up the stairs.

They’re a bit slow in following, and Severus slows to match his pace to theirs, managing to do it without making it noticeable. “You are all right, correct?” he asks Draco softly, standing close enough that Draco feels their robes brush against each other’s. Draco gives a small nod, but doesn’t look away from the ground. He knows it’s not enough to satisfy Severus, but he’s not much for caring right now.

“Where’re Ron and Hermione?” Potter asks.

“They’ve been keeping out of the way… for the most part. I have no idea what they are doing, so I have no answer to your question. However,” he says when Potter looks a little apprehensive, “I do know that they have been scouring the castle. It seems like they have made some important discoveries from what I can recall.”

Even this, though good news in the long run, is not enough to brighten Draco’s outlook. But he concentrates on the fact that everything they do brings them one more step closer to finishing this war that has gone on for far longer than it should have.

* * *

Sirius paces in the headmaster’s study, ignoring the portraits on the wall in favour of studying his own feet. He’s had practise ignoring Phineas Nigellus and his high, reedy voice; it’s easy to tune him out now.

He’s sick of waiting; it seems like he’s been waiting his entire life, and none of it has helped or done much of anything. It’s only led to disappointments.

Dumbledore is fiddling with one of his trinkets, but it’s any guess as to what it does. There’s a small flare of light, a puff of smoke, and then nothing. Albus looks at it for a moment, his face sagging and making it look as if he’s aged thirty years. He sets the instrument back down on its table and tries to smooth his expression over.

“What was that supposed to do?” Sirius asks, breaking the tension that silence has created in the office.

Albus casts him a look and waves a hand over the table. There’s a click and a whir, and the device folds into itself until nothing is left but a slim disc. “It allows me to contact a valuable friend. But as the call was not answered, I fear the worst.”

“Valuable friend?” Sirius asks, and approaches the table to look down at the disc. “You have a great many of those, Albus.”

Albus smiles and turns back to his desk. “I was hoping for news,” he says, “on the whereabouts of dear Draco and Harry.”

There’s a jolt in Sirius’s stomach and he swallows nervously. “Maybe no news is good news?” The hope behind it tremors; it’s a delicate thing.

“Quite possibly,” Albus says, but Sirius knows that there is always something that Dumbledore never reveals. He doesn’t want to know what is kept from his knowledge this time.

“I think I’ll go look for the other two,” he says, in an effort to give himself something to do. Sirius closes the door on Albus’ nod.

He hears voices when he is halfway down the staircase, and it’s hard to believe his eyes when the hallway comes into view. Spotting Harry standing there, looking a little rough for wear, Sirius feels like he did on the street. He bounds down the final stairs and just manages to stop himself from pulling Harry into a hug; he looks as if he’s about to fall over at any second.

“You’re back,” he says instead, stumbling to a halt in front of them, his hands falling limply to his sides. He ignores Snape’s presence entirely, too focused on Harry. Harry gives him a small smile, and Sirius is left wondering what it is the two of them have done. His eyes dart to the side and take in Draco’s pale and worn complexion, noting the empty look in his eyes and the dark circles underneath. Sirius recognises it; he’s seen it often enough in the mirror.

“If you’ll excuse us, Black, we’d like to get through,” Snape sneers, and Sirius throws him a glare out of habit.

“I’d have liked the opportunity to talk to my–”

“You’ll have more chances to do so later.” Snape interrupts him smoothly and motions with his head for Sirius to get out of the way. Because it’s been done so often, seems like it’s almost a routine between them, Sirius moves because he knows there would be a dog-related comment coming next. He’s not going to give Snape that chance this time. He does growl, though; he sees Snape smirk.

Sirius watches as the staircase spirals them away and until the gargoyle jumps back into place and blocks his view of their feet. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get the image of such haunted young faces out of his memory, and is forcibly taken back to the First Wizarding War. It’s never pleasant.

At loss of what to do, he sets off with a false jump added to his step towards where he last remembers seeing Hermione and Ron poking around in the corridors. They, he knows at least, won’t mind his company. And even though it’s not the company he’d choose at the moment, it’s better than Snape’s by far.

He spots Hermione leaning close to Ron as she whispers quickly to him. They are huddled together to the side of the corridor and holding something between them, but he’s not quite able to see what it is. He only manages to catch indistinguishable murmurs of their whispers, and he sneaks closer.

Sirius peers over her shoulder. The object is innocuous enough, but the air around it seems heavy and cold. Sirius recognises this, from lessons so long ago it’s a wonder he hasn’t forgotten them. "Is that – is that a Horcrux?" he asks and backs away at Hermione’s shriek.

Hermione spins and hides the object behind her back. Her face is torn between anger and fear, and she near spits out, "How do you know about Horcruxes?" Her voice is the perfect combination of suspicion and anger and fear.

Sirius snorts. "You don't live in the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black and not escape from being taught about dark magic. Parents seemed to think that if they taught their children ways to best enemies and find ways to become immortal that they'd convert me into their puppet. Fat lot of good it did Regulus, anyway."

"Regulus? Your brother?" Ron asks.

"Yes." Sirius goes on to explain, "It worked on him; he thought that since he had such knowledge, the Dark Lord would gladly take him in, maybe see a connection between the two of them. Of course, Voldemort is always suspicious, and he doesn't like to have that sort of knowledge up and about. So he killed him."

"I – I didn't know," Hermione says, her guard relaxing just a little, her shoulders slumping into a more comfortable position. She doesn't bring out her hands from behind her back, though.

"You wouldn't," Sirius says. "It's not very common knowledge. I only know bits and pieces of it myself. What do you plan to do with that? There are only a few ways to get rid of it, and I don't think you have any of them with you."

“We,” Hermione begins carefully, looking over at Ron. “There were a few books we got the opportunity to look through. We thought that if we’d be able to find one of the items mentioned, we’d be okay, but we haven’t had any luck yet.” From behind her back, she raises the oddly discoloured tiara, her knuckles clenched tightly around the band.

"Any spell or object powerful enough, more powerful and more ancient than the object itself, would be able to destroy it," Sirius explains, and Hermione nods along with him. “Even if the object isn’t ancient, if it houses power enough for it, it could work. Certain spells are known to have a better effect on Horcruxes than others; Fiendfyre, for one.”

"We'd thought that in a castle as old as Hogwarts that there had to be something we could use," Ron says.

"And that's where I come in," Sirius says proudly. "It's hard to find someone who knows the castle as well as I do, from all that we did in our time at school here." He sees them share a bemused look and has to smile to himself. “Come,” he says, and gestures towards the end of the corridor.

Sirius sets a quick pace down the corridor, the other two following behind him. He’s thankful that it’s late enough that the majority of students are in bed, and it’s not like them to be in this quarter of the castle anyway.

He rounds a corner and is grateful that they don’t have a long way to go; he’s not as young as he once used to be, and his knees crack at odd intervals, even though he’s not terribly old either. It’s the excitement over being able to help that adds an extra bounce to his step, even with the situation as dire as it is. His strides slow to a more comfortable length once he spots the door he hasn’t entered for so long.

It creaks a little, the wood moaning under his touch as Sirius pushes it open. There’s an assault of dust and he waves a hand to clear it from his face, trying not to inhale too quickly and choke on it. Behind him, he hears Hermione whisper a charm and the air clears.

The room is just as he remembers it: dark and dusty, holding a dank smell like that of wet, forgotten clothes. The torches flicker to life along the walls, but the light they put off is weak, and they are spaced too far apart to be helpful.

“What is this place?” Hermione asks, and her voice is muffled in the room.

“It’s a sort of everything and in between room,” Sirius explains. “Neither a classroom nor extracurricular, never empty or full, occupied or unoccupied.” Memories from the past rise up before his eyes, shadows of times long ago playing out in the room until he blinks and they meld in with the dust motes that drift lazily by.

“So,” Ron begins to say slowly. “If it’s not this or that… it’s sort of like brunch? Neither breakfast or lunch?”

Sirius blinks and looks over his shoulder at Ron. “Well, I suppose,” he says. “That’s one way you could describe it. But then again, brunch is a definite thing too. Like the room, nothing in it is quite what it seems like either, isn’t all black and white. You could pick up the same item each time you come in here and it would have a purpose completely opposite than it had last time, or may just be a ghost of an image.”

“So what? It shifts to suit the needs of whomever is inside?”

“Not quite,” Sirius says. “It’s very touch and go. You could either find the room very helpful or not at all.”

“So what are we looking for in here?” Ron asks, and he picks up an old circular disc, flipping it back and forth in his hands. “Not just anything will do, will it?”

“No, of course not,” Hermione says. “A weapon, or something that can be used as one. The older it is, the better, really.” She begins to make her way through the room, being careful to avoid brushing against the tables holding various objects. Sirius makes his way through the other side, branching off and leaving the two of them to look around on their own. He knows that Hermione always gives it her best, and both she and Ron have a good reputation as a team.

He shouldn't really be surprised to find himself reminiscing in this room, as he passes by places and items he remembers using on the nightly excursions they had during their years at Hogwarts, he, James and Remus. It's a sour thought to think that Peter had been there as well. If only he knew then what he does now.

 _It's all in the past, though_ , he reminds himself, and ducks under a low arch that's covered with flowering ivy. It holds a scent that's so unlike anything he remembers breathing in from outside, from anywhere other than this room.

A shout breaks through the musty air, causing his head to whip around and making him peer through the raised stacks. He can just barely make out something being waved through the air, and hopes that they have at least found something that can be _made_ useful. The room and its objects are very hit and miss.

When he reaches Ron, it's to find that he is holding a very battered case, thin and about as long as his forearm, looking as if its last good day was centuries ago. Sirius sucks in a breath.

"That's–" he begins and stops before he can say anything more. Instead, he reaches out and lifts the case from Ron's hands, hefting the weight. "Clear some room on that table there," he says, and nods towards a mostly empty table, ornate with carvings. It looks as if it's been dusted with gold, but he's not really sure if he should invest much in that assumption. He's not even sure if this case is holding what he thinks it must, or if he’ll just find it empty.

Ron clears the table with a flick of his wand and sends the items that had littered it to land in a heap on the floor. Some of them meld into the stone, or explode into a burst of sparks. Normally, Sirius would berate him for being so careless, would have said that the room is far too unstable to have such careless acts take place in it. For the moment, he's just excited that the table is clear and he lays the case down on its surface.

The hinges creak with age as Sirius eases the lid open, holding his breath with anticipation, but the object inside is perfectly preserved, if a little old. The charms on the outside of the box have done their job. The jewels that adorn the hilt of the dagger glimmer in the dust-filtered light, holding a light of their own.

Hermione rushes up to where they stand and lets out a soft gasp as she peers over Sirius’ shoulder. Carefully, Sirius reaches in and pulls it out. It’s old, very old, and the jewels no doubt carry some degree of magic. They wouldn’t be shining like that if they were just decorations. “Seems as good as any, right?” he asks, twirling it through the air so that it catches light and sends it back out in diamond patterns.

“Is it from the room?” Ron asks, and Sirius shakes his head.

“Can’t be. Something like this… must have been placed here, or hidden under a charm. How did you find it?” Sirius asks, just a little suspicious.

Ron shrugs and looks as if he was wondering the same question. “Just sort of appeared, after I turned my back.”

“Right, well let’s see that headdress thing.”

Ron removes the case from the table and Hermione carefully puts the diadem in its place. The light from the jewels shine off the tiara, winking at it as if threatening it and saying _you or me?_ The diadem glints back angrily.

Sirius catches Hermione’s eye and hands over the weapon to her; she takes it carefully. She hefts it, feeling its weight in her hand before she positions it above the table and brings it down in an arc, the song of the blade and the dance of the light off of it blinding.

There’s a brief moment where it doesn’t look like anything has happened. The tiniest of cracks appear where the blade made contact before it splits down the middle and releases a burst of energy. Under her hand, the sword shatters until Hermione is only left with the hilt, the gems dark and empty and losing their luster. She drops it when it begins to smoke.

There’s a rumble, barely heard over the screeching of the diadem on the table as it collapses into itself. Looking back over his shoulder, Sirius sees the room beginning to shrink, the items disappearing or spontaneously bursting into flame or melting.

“RUN!” he shouts, and grabs both of them by the upper arms, pushing them ahead of him back down the way they came. They take off, outrunning the room being consumed and the screech of the tiara. There’s an explosion behind them, and the shriek is cut off.

They reach the door just in time, and Sirius slams it shut behind them, leans back against it to catch his breath. Ron, straightening up from his crouch in an effort to catch his breath says, “Well, that was fun.”

Sirius barks a laugh. “It’s not something I’d like to do again, that’s for sure.”

“Are we sure it’s gone, though?” Hermione asks, panting a little. She runs a hand through her hair; it catches, and she pulls out a discoloured edge of what had once been the tiara.

“Guess that explains it,” Sirius says, nodding towards the small bit she holds in her hand.

“’Bout time,” Ron says. “Took us ages just to find the blasted thing. Bloody bastard had to do the unexpected and hide it in plain view, on the statue of Ravenclaw in their common room. Thanks,” he says, nodding at Sirius.

“A pleasure,” Sirius says.

“We need to go,” Hermione says, looking off down the hallway. “We need to find out if Harry and Draco have gotten back yet.”

“They have,” Sirius says, remembering the haunted looks on their faces.

Hermione jumps and shoots him a nasty look. “Why didn’t you say anything before? Come on, let’s go look for them!” And she takes off, running down the hallway. Ron sends Sirius a half smile, apologetic, and follows after her.

* * *

Harry wasn’t sure what he had been expecting upon entering the headmaster’s office. He feels like he should have expected the wash of magic, as if the office were the hub of the school. He tightens his grip on Draco’s hand, grounding himself with the touch. Draco squeezes back, but it feels a little weak to Harry.

He follows the olive green of Snape’s magic and allows Draco to draw him down into a chair. It’s easier to lose himself in the dance of magic here than it has been anywhere else. There’s so much of it, decorating the walls in patches of vivid, shimmering colours, dancing through the air from one item to another.

As he looks around the office, he feels the change when Dumbledore approaches, his swirling magic looking as if it's the beginning and the end of the magic in the school. Harry's not all that surprised, really. The school's magic comes from its occupants, especially the headmaster, who has no doubt been one of the longest occupants here.

He greets them and, mechanically, Harry holds up the cup. The metal is hot under his fingers, and he can feel a light pulse under his skin. Holding it makes him nervous, but he has not yet dropped it; he won't allow himself to. But that doesn't stop him from being grateful to have it gone from his grasp when he places it on the desk. It feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.

"And the locket?" Dumbledore asks, examining the cup carefully, but without touching it.

Slowly, Harry also withdraws the locket from his robes pocket, and feels immensely pleased to have both away from him. He breathes the first proper breath in what feels like weeks. His head is clear, making the dance of magic brighter and clearer, even with the objects only being a little farther away, out of contact with him. He realises that it's been a while since he's seen it like this, and how much he has missed it.

Harry sees Dumbledore's magic begin to twine about the chain of the locket and hears him mutter a few words under his breath.

"The locket was a Portkey," Draco says quietly. "Took us to a set of dungeons somewhere."

Dumbledore's attention snaps to Draco in a second. "How did you escape?" he asks carefully, and Harry can almost feel his penetrating stare. Beside him, Draco shifts uneasily; Harry tightens his hold on Draco's hand and feels Draco give a grateful grip back.

"My - my father," Draco manages. "Acting spy." There's a hot pulse from Draco's anger and his grip is almost painful by now. "And you knew. Why did you never say anything? Give a hint or – or anything!"

"Lucius thought it would be best," Dumbledore explains softly. "The fewer people who knew about his true allegiance, the better." Behind them, Snape makes an agreeing sound.

"Not a lot of good that did him," Draco says, and the anger behind it is lethal. "The Dark Lord killed him. Right after we got the cup. He knew we were going to seek it, and Father attempted to hold– hold him off while w-we escaped."

“I am very sorry," Dumbledore whispers, but beside him, Harry knows that Draco shrugs the condolences off. He wishes he could say something supportive, but has no idea what he would say, especially with an audience.

"As for these items," Dumbledore continues as Draco stews, “take them with you. Miss Granger and Mr Weasley have been searching the castle for the other, and we must act quickly. There is not much time left.”

Snape speaks for the first time since they got here. "And why do you say that, Headmaster?"

"Oh, because there is no doubt that Tom knows we have knowledge about the Horcruxes, and he will not treat us lightly. How could he not when he’s laid trap after trap in your path?” Harry’s attention is focused on the two objects on the desk. “No, I think we shall be seeing him very soon, and I do not think we should be meeting him on Hogwarts grounds. There are, after all, the children to think of."

"Then where?" Snape asks, and he sounds a little doubtful to Harry's ears.

“I think it best that we meet him on an even playing field, don’t you?” Harry doesn't know who this question is directed to, but he can't bring himself to care, too preoccupied with Draco. He smoothes his thumb over the back of Draco's hand, unseen by the professors due to the cover of their robes.

Catching him off guard, Harry’s head pounds and his stomach roils; he bends over in his seat and clutches at his middle, hoping to ward off the sudden wave of sickness. The only thing he’s aware of is the pain in his forehead and the distant sound of screaming ringing in his ears. He breaks out into a cold sweat, and shakes his head in an attempt to rid himself of the sound; he thinks he knows exactly where it was coming from.

Gradually, the pulse dies down to a manageable level, and Harry sits up. The objects before him have moved a little, the magic disturbed and trembling. There’s a warm hand on his back, familiar and comforting, and Harry leans into Draco, absorbing support from him while he still can.

“Potter?” Draco asks quietly, his voice next to Harry’s ear and his breath toying with his hair.

“Fine,” Harry says in response. “Just a dizzy spell.”

He doesn’t think it’s convinced anyone, though. Both Snape and Dumbledore are silent across from them, and Harry feels their heavy stares. Draco’s hand twitches a little where it rests on the small of his back, but is eventually withdrawn. Harry feels cold with its absence.

“Severus, I need you to do something….” As Dumbledore draws out an explanation for Snape, Draco leans back towards Harry.

“I know that was no dizzy spell,” he whispers. Harry closes his eyes and passes a hand over them. He knows he should explain what he knows, the realisation he made just a few days ago. But he doesn’t even know where to start, or even if Draco would believe him or berate him for jumping to outlandish conclusions.

He finds he doesn’t have to, though. “I think, if you could, Misters Malfoy and Potter, take these with you?” Harry has no doubt that he’s referring to the locket and the cup where they rest on the table, and Harry’s stomach flip-flops at having to carry them with him again. Even having them on the desk is close enough for him, and the respite had been too brief. He doesn’t know how he’ll manage carrying them again.

Draco saves him, though. He takes both of the items and there’s a chime as he drops the locket inside the cup. There’s also a small pulse of energy, and Harry feels whatever is in his head sympathise; he fights off the urge to raise a hand and rub his forehead.

“Let’s go,” Draco says, and taps Harry’s hand where it rests on the arm of his chair. “Let them discuss what they want.”

Harry nods and follows Draco through the office, out the door, and down the staircase. There’s the crunch of stone on stone as the statue leading to the office moves back into place, blocking the way for any unwanted visitors.

The locket chimes within the cup when moved, and Harry’s stomach churns with it. His attention is riveted to it, no matter how hard he tries to look away.

“We need something to destroy them,” Draco says, talking about the Horcruxes with as much distaste as he can muster. The objects that glitter at Harry as he stares at them, sickeningly and enticingly, harbouring promises that would make and unmake him. He tears his eyes away from them and looks at Draco, struck by sudden inspiration.

“And what’s more ancient and more powerful than magic itself?”

Harry hears Draco suck in a breath. “And you–” he begins.

“I can see it,” Harry says, before Draco can get the wrong idea. “I might have some sort of control over ‘living magic’, shall we say, but I don’t know if I’d be able to do anything to those.” He nods at the artefacts, as if Draco doesn’t already know what he’s talking about.

Draco makes a noise in the back of his throat. “You said when we first met that you imbue certain belongings of yours with your magic; do you think you’d be able to do that enough to maybe another ancient object? We might be able to use that.”

“That’s–” Harry says, and stops. He frowns as he thinks on it. “Maybe. It’s worth a shot, I suppose.”

“Well, a shot is more than we’ve got at the moment,” Draco says. His free hand wraps around Harry’s wrist, his skin warm and making Harry notice how cold he was before.

“Do you have a sort of object in mind?” Harry asks, slightly wary of the task they have ahead of them.

“There’s bound to be something at Hogwarts here. A part of it, maybe a bit of its history….” He trails off, his thumb moving across Harry’s wrist in a way that Harry thinks is unconscious.

“There’s an old legend,” Draco says at last. “Four Hogwarts founders had items that were closely associated with them. Obviously, Hufflepuff had her cup, Slytherin his locket, and Ravenclaw her diadem. Gryffindor is said to have the only weapon: a sword.”

“Well, where is it?” Harry asks. The faster they find this, the sooner they’ll be able to rid themselves of these… _things_.

“Missing. It only shows up here and there throughout history.” Draco sounds as if he’s thinking fast and trying hard to remember stories and facts from so long ago. “Its appearance is scattered, and usually only when everything seems hopeless for the ‘hero’ in the story.”

“Well, where would it go?” Harry finds it hard to believe that such an ancient artefact would go vanishing on a regular basis, popping in and out of view when needed, but he trusts Draco's word.

Draco sucks in a breath of realisation. “Come on,” he says, and pulls Harry down the corridor. “There’s a place I remember from years ago that always held exactly what I needed when I entered. It might be one of our best bets to get it.”

The walls of the school blur in Harry’s vision, weaving together as they run through the castle, only slowing for staircases and corners. Harry trusts wherever it is Draco is taking him, trusts him to guide him through the corridors and make sure he doesn’t run into anything. He tries to keep track of where they’re going, tries to make a mental map, and fails miserably. He doesn’t even think they’ve crossed the path they had taken with Snape, or even come close.

Harry’s out of breath by the time Draco allows them to slow to a stop. He releases Harry’s hand and Harry feels him walking away until Draco is standing in the middle of the corridor. “What–?” he asks, torn, as he watches Draco begin to pace, his magic brighter than normal with hope and fresh knowledge.

Harry loses track of the question he had wanted to ask when he watches the magic covering the wall behind Draco begin to twist and take on a new form. It pulses, shifts and locks into place with each step Draco takes, every turn he makes.

When he stops, Harry doesn’t recognise the magic that now drapes itself on the wall from what it had been before. He stares at it, gaping and wide-eyed, trying to take in every corner of energy he can see there.

Draco sounds highly amused and proud when he speaks, and just a little smug. “I found it in my later years in school. Helped out on the nights where I couldn’t get into the common room or couldn’t stand to be in there.”

Harry’s about to ask why Draco needed such a room, but he’s pretty sure he can guess. Instead, he reaches out a hand and draws it over the stone, feeling the magic move beneath his fingers, weaving through them playfully. It eases his worries and makes him feel a little better, the slight contact giving him an energy boost.

“Come on,” Draco says, and takes his hand lightly. He opens the door and Harry steps through, Draco following closely behind.

It’s hard to make out definite shapes in whatever room they’ve stepped into, the air thick with magic until it seems like a continuous loop, nothing ending or beginning in here.

“There’s a special way to enter the room,” Draco says, slowly moving through small heaps of items, stopping every now and then to bend over and fiddle with an item or two. “You have to be very specific in what you ask from it, for what you want it to give you.”

“What did you ask for?” Harry asks, bending over and lightly poking at a tangled mess of magic by his ankle.

“What we needed: an old artefact or the sword. I have no idea how else we’d be expected to get the sword, particularly if it’s been missing for hundreds of years now.”

“Right,” Harry says, trying to kick start his brain into thinking in a more logical manner. “Then I guess it’s just searching for the best thing we can find, seeing as the room has decided to give us a bit of everything.”

“Well, this lot will do us no good,” Draco says, and there’s a small clatter, as if Draco had lightly kicked at a pile. Harry watches as the magic shrinks back and surges forward, and it rolls in on itself until it's settled. "These are all books and various banned items. I think we're better off checking nearer to the back." Harry nods and shuffles his way closer to Draco, trying to place his feet in a way that doesn't disturb the items at his feet or irritate the magic any further.

The room is larger than Harry had thought, as if it was almost growing larger the farther in they go. Harry leaves the actual searching up to Draco, preferring to examine how the magic weaves through individual items, how it is different and the same at once. Draco leads him towards the back to a corner where the air isn't just thick with magic, but also with old age; mothballs and dust and neglect fill the air.

"Makes you wonder how some students sneak things into the castle," Draco says as he shifts through the stack. "There have got to be at least twenty or thirty weaponry items in this area alone, both magical and Muggle." He grunts as he shifts through the pile, the clatter of metal on metal and stone ringing through the still air and a spell here and there as he Banishes items. Harry tries to help, careful not to get in the way or grip something from the wrong end.

Harry's shirt is sticking to his back, glued there from sweat, and he unbuttons his robes until he can slide them off; they don't really allow for great air circulation. "This is hopeless," he says, and it's a combination of the heat and what he is pretty sure is close proximity to the items in Draco's pocket that makes him irritable. "How're we expected to find it in here? You said the sword appears in times of need. If we were really in need of something, we wouldn't go digging through a stack of weapons like this. It's got to know that we'd be able to use any of the swords here and have the same effect."

"But we won't get the same effect," Draco says, but he stops rummaging through the pile all the same. "We'd have a better chance with the sword of Gryffindor, and we would know that it works for sure. The age of these relics is debatable."

"True," Harry says. "But even still, we don't exactly put off the air that we're in a 'time of great need'."

Draco sighs and throws down whatever it is he's holding. Harry suspects that it was a type of mace from the sound it makes when it clashes with the other items. "You have a point," he says. "Neither one of us is really dying, or in much danger at all."

No sooner has he said that then there is a shrill screech, and Harry knows instinctively that it did not come from inside the room. His headache, that had until now been shoved into the back of his mind, comes to the fore with a vengeance. Harry stumbles and claps a hand to his forehead, trying to massage away the pain by scrubbing at it furiously. It's no use, though, and only seems to be making things worse.

There's a voice, he knows, but he's not able to tell what it's saying, or even if it's Draco or someone else. It's not, he thinks; he closes his eyes and is immediately disoriented, feeling as if he's no longer inside that magical room with Draco. Instead, he feels as if he's standing on a hill, feeling the cold midnight wind on his face that holds the distinct after-rain scent. He feels like an avenging deity, power and anger rolled into one. Maybe there's a feeling of slight hollowness, but he's very adept at ignoring that now. It's a small price to pay for greatness.

For a moment, Harry doesn't know what is going on. There's no more of the light, no magic that he's able to see. He can feel it, though, swirling around him from his enchantments. But there's no pulse, no welcoming beat or warm glow, no twinkle of playful magic or vivid colours. It's far too dark, feels far too filled with anger and hate and fear.

When his vision comes into focus, adjusted into a different sight, he feels as if he's been caught into a whirlwind. It’s been so long since he’s been thrust into a vision like this, and in a place outside of the empty impersonal rooms Voldemort seems to favour. He takes it in while he still can, the trees, stars, the half orb of the moon hanging in the sky and the distant bank of a lake.

He's not in his body, Harry knows, not recognising the wand in his grasp, how his fingers feel at all. He's had small occurrences, dreams, where he's thought that he'd made a transfer like this before. But this is the first time that he can recall doing this while awake. The voice that comes out of his mouth is far too high and cold to belong to him.

"This, I'm sure you'll agree, has gone on for far too long." It's chilling, that voice – Harry's determined not to think of it as his own. "I would invite you to defend what petty ideals you have and if you dare to do so. But I see that you've already sent forth your weak links.” He darts a look out over the field below, not too far from the castle itself. It’s far enough that the battle about to take place will not disturb the students too much.

“I’ve offered you times in which to back down before; you have turned away from each of my offers. The grace period is over. What little of you still remain with your silly ideals will be overpowered tonight. This is the last chance I will give you, and I have been very generous.”

The hill is silent after his speech, even the wind stilling as it prepares for whatever will happen next. Voldemort is not going to wait around, though; his patience is at its limit, and anyone who comes over now won’t be worth the effort. He’d most likely end up killing them as it is.

Harry sucks in a large breath and is immediately back in the safety of his own body, his own mind. He feels a twinge of disappointment upon opening his eyes, in not being able to make out more than vague shapes. The colours, though, are a welcome sight, as is the light brush of the magic across his cheek and the warmth it brings. It’s a lot lighter here, not as clogged and corrupted, and for that, he’s extremely thankful.

“Harry?” Draco’s voice penetrates the fog that still seems so thick around him, and from the tone of his voice, Harry knows that hasn’t been the first time he’s tried to get Harry’s attention. He's got Harry cradled in his lap, back to chest and his arms wrapped around Harry's middle.

“Sorry,” he gasps and tries to sit up, but gives it up as a lost cause and leans back into Draco’s hold. He’s shaking, he realises, and there seems to be even more sweat on him than he remembers. He tries to find words to express what had happened, but he doesn’t think he’s able to.

Draco doesn’t seem to need them, though. “I heard him,” he says, and that’s all he says on the matter. They sit on the floor, trying to calm respective heartbeats and arrange their thoughts.

“We need to find that sword,” Harry says. His voice is just a little cracked and strained.

“Well, one good thing came from that announcement,” Draco says, an almost playful lilt to his voice. “Looks like we’re in dire need of help now.” He shifts and grabs something just outside of Harry’s line of view. There’s the sing of metal on stone, then through the air as Draco lifts it up. Harry feels his muscles working, and relishes the sensation of Draco moving behind him, under him.

He shifts just enough to catch a look at what it is Draco has hefted. It’s very clearly the sword – Harry doesn’t remember seeing anything this old and nearly as powerful as what Draco has in his hand. The air crackles around it, little whirs and pops as the magic of the sword meets with that of the room; it clicks with Draco’s magic and seems to twine about with it, looking as if it’s attaching itself to him, a sort of anchor.

Harry pulls away to get a better look. Draco hands it over to him, laying it carefully across Harry’s lap. “See what you can do with it,” he says, and begins to pull off his robes.

Harry centres his focus on the sword, allowing his palm to drift over the blade and touch the magic, seeing it spark and flare, embrace and welcome; it's prepared to rise to whatever challenge it's up against. The magic of it is unlike any he’s seen before, what he imagines the magic behind the cup or the locket must have been like before being tainted by Voldemort’s soul. It’s alive almost, under his hand, and Harry’s doubts slip away. He’s positive that he can find a way to imbue this.

It’s a familiar process for Harry to focus his magic until it is in a certain position; travelling down his arm to the hand he has resting over the blade. He watches as the different magics touch, slowly at first, as if testing one another, before the magic from the sword welcomes his hand, enveloping it in a warm, sunny light.

Hesitantly, Harry allows his hand to touch the metal of the blade and feels the sword’s magic creep up his arm and melt into his skin. He’s nervous, of course; he’s never dealt with an object that already had its own magic like this before.

It pulls at his magic, taking it from him after his offer, and that alone should cause him to worry. But the way the magic is eased away from him feels more like an exchange. Harry feels more like he’s pulling the magic of the sword closer to the fore, from where it has been unused for so long.

The sword looks brighter than it had from before, a whole new level of magic and power added in. A drop of sweat falls onto the blade and Harry hopes he imagined that sizzle.

"Well?" Draco asks, approaching cautiously and with the Horcruxes in hand. Harry wishes that they could have stayed in the robes, but he knows that's not very practical.

"Fine," he says, his voice a little unsteady and his throat dry. He coughs and moves the sword away from his lap, but he doesn't quite feel like he can stand. He feels Draco draw closer, feels him brush up beside him and he sighs with relief.

"We don't have much time," Draco says, reaching across to caress the hilt of the sword where it lies on the stone in front of them.

"Go ahead," Harry says, nodding towards the sword. "I don't think- think I'd be able to do it right now. You'd better."

Draco hesitates, but with the additional magic added, it seems to reel him in, making its lure stronger, and he's quick to respond to the call.

The Horcruxes are pushed away, separated and laid out before them. Harry scoots away from them until his back is pressing against the slope of a pile and he's unable to get any farther. His headache feels like it's never going to leave, making him feel hotter than he should be, and achy.

He watches as Draco stands, adjusts his grip on the hilt and lifts it until it's hovering in the air over the cup. Time seems to be standing still for Harry, and goes even slower when Draco begins to swing, the whistle of steel through air sharp and loud, heralding what Harry hopes to be end of the cup.

The crack that rings through the air makes Harry's ears feel like they're about to bleed, the shrill shriek making his teeth ache and his head pound as if it were about to split open. He curls into himself, trying to block out the scream that is the demise of Voldemort's Horcrux. If he had been farther away, he might have been able to suffer through it, but as it is, it’s hard to keep his vision straight. He tries to keep his focus on where he can just make out the bottom edge of Draco's magic from his position on the floor.

He barely hears the clatter of something being dropped on the floor over the soundtrack he has going in his mind, that piercing scream playing over and over.

"Harry!" Draco shouts in his ear, his hands clenched tightly on Harry's shoulders as he shakes him. Harry shakes his head and pushes Draco away instinctively, his palms scraping against the rough stone once he's broken the hold. He hits the edge of the stack behind him, sending a cascade of items long since forgotten to tumble to the ground.

His heart is racing by the time Harry gets control of himself, forcing himself to remember where he is and what it is they are doing. Harry turns slowly, just enough for him to be able to make out Draco's magic, crouching close by and reaching towards him, ready to offer any reassurance Harry needs.

Harry raises a shaking hand and presses it into Draco's, feeling the warm tingle of Draco's magic like a welcome back. He doesn't ever think he could forget what it's like to touch Draco, feel the brush of his magic and always, _always_ be welcomed back into a warm embrace.

"What is it?" Draco asks, and he sounds so curious and desperate and just the right amount of suspicious that Harry wants nothing more than to tell him, if only he could find the words to explain, or the strength to say that it's not just Voldemort dying with the destruction of every Horcrux - it's Harry, too.

Instead, Harry buries his face in Draco's neck and inhales the scent from Draco's shirt and skin in gulps.

"Just," he says and tries to keep his voice at a reasonable level and tone. "The locket too, that still needs to be broken," he whispers. "After that, it shouldn't happen again. I think it's just the explosion of magic." The lie tastes foul on his tongue.

Harry doesn’t think – _he knows_ – that Draco doesn’t believe him; after all, it’s feeble to his own ears as it is. But Draco must know that getting the Horcrux destroyed is their top priority, and that there’s no denying that it needs to be done as soon as possible. After all, they’ve heard what it was Voldemort had said. The sooner they get this over with, the better.

Harry closes his eyes as Draco stands and moves away, trying to trick himself into believing that if he can’t see its destruction, it won’t bother him when the locket is stabbed.

Because he’s braced himself for it, it isn’t as bad, but it still makes his head spin and his breaths short when the locket lets out its own high pitched screech. But it sounds as if the sword has just grazed off the side of it, and it’s whole when Harry opens his eyes to observe it, the magic untouched. The taint is still there, swirling angry and pulsing, reach out to grab at an unsuspecting victim.

Harry stands, wavering a little and unbalanced, but he manages to grab a hold of the back of Draco’s shirt, yanking him back and away from the locket. “Get away from it!” he says, pulling Draco away from the magic reaching for him. The edge of the sword drags across the ground, the sound eclipsed by the horrible noise and protestations the locket is making.

“What?” Draco asks him.

“It’s got defences,” Harry says. His head is throbbing painfully, and his grip tightens enough on the back of Draco’s shirt that he’s surprised he hasn’t ripped the fabric yet.

“What kind of defences?” Draco asks him warily.

“I don’t know,” Harry says. “Maybe power from the cup transferred over and helped strengthen it, or there’s magic on it that we don’t know about, but it won’t be as simple as just stabbing it.” He thinks for a moment, trying to find the weak spot in the curling black magic that moves sickeningly over the face of the locket. The outside is impenetrable, but the inside should be vulnerable. “Think we can open it?”

“There's... a chance that we could. I don’t know if we’d be able to, though. If the Dark Lord doesn’t want it to open, how do you suppose we’ll do it?” He bends down and reaches towards it; Harry leans over his shoulder, watches as the magic looks as if it is biding its time, waiting for contact. It knows it’s in danger on some level, and it’s going to put up a fight.

Draco picks it up, holding it gently in the palm of his hand. “Here,” Harry says, and takes it away from him before the magic can latch onto Draco. He feels the magic fight him, snapping at his fingers until it seems to recognise something in him. He feels a sick lurch in his stomach at the confirmation; he’s been avoiding having any contact between his magic and that of the Horcruxes as much as possible until now. He tries to pry the locket apart from varying sides, pushing in different directions until the metal has left small incisions on his fingers, but it stays firmly shut; Harry hopes he’s just imagining the laughter that’s ringing in his head from his efforts.

Frustrated, he clenches his fist around it and watches as the magic from the locket slips through the gaps between his fingers like a viscous oil, dripping down to his wrist until his hand is covered in it. It’s laughing and jeering at him, goading him into doing something stupid, trying to make him angry enough to lose sight of what it’s making him do, and what he does himself.

“Harry?”

Draco’s voice sounds like it’s coming from miles away, a mere whisper in his ear. Harry's not sure what will happen if he responds to the voice; if it will be under the influence of the locket, or if he’ll be able to fight it off.

Harry snarls at his clenched fist, squeezes tighter until his nails are digging into his hand and the locket must be permanently marked into his skin. “Why won’t you open?” he asks it. He knows his defences are down, and he doesn’t really expect to get an answer from it, but he does.

 _Because you haven’t asked_.

It’s said as if it's a dare, and Harry doesn’t think it’s one he’s ready to challenge yet. But even if he’s not ready, he knows he has to do it regardless. “Open then,” he says to it. He uncurls his fist, and the locket falls open, laughing because it knows it’s got him ensnared, and Harry knows this too. Whatever is in the locket has him, knows him too well.

Harry wishes he could drop it, wishes that it wasn’t burning his skin and laughing horribly and that Draco wasn’t here to witness this, the smoke rising from the depth of the locket that goes far too deep. Swirling figures of people long since past that still haunt him, goad him. Dudley, Vernon, people he remembers going to school with but are now nameless. Even nameless, they still manage to hold some sort of power over Harry.

He doesn’t hear what they’re saying; he doesn’t need to. It’s been a chorus in his mind since he can remember: unwanted, unloved, silly, stupid and disabled, an idiot. Unable to do anything, an invalid when they can’t understand and don’t want to. But even though Harry knows this, they won’t believe him no matter what he says. He can’t fight back because they won’t listen, and he has no one to fight for him except himself. And is it worth it?

Draco slaps the locket from his hand, sending it careening through the air until it lands several feet away from them. Harry takes a deep breath and it begins to register that Draco is yelling at him, pulling him away from the locket. The locket is still hissing at him, black smoke churning out of it at an alarming rate and making Harry lose sight of everything – there’s no light, no magic, nothing to guide him.

Harry knows it’s a lie, because there’s one ray of light that he’s always been able see, and it’s left its mark on him. He can make out that distinctive shimmering ice blue of Draco’s magic beside him, feel the grip Draco has on his hand, and he concentrates on that; Harry’s not going to allow the Horcrux to blot that out from him.

His vision clears enough for him to be able to make out something not quite right about the locket. It's as if there's something missing, a small gap where the magic isn't quite covering it properly. He got it to open; what's to say he can't destroy it as well? The locket has filled him with a white-hot rage, a desire to destroy that he’s unwilling to deny.

Cautiously, he approaches where it has landed on the flagstones, his feet getting tangled in the objects he had knocked down previously. He's careful not to get too close, and he's still trying to block out what it's saying, the jeers and accusations until they are faint whispers in the back of his mind. He kneels when he's just a few paces away, where he can feel the heat from whatever it is it's putting off, the energy and spells reacting with those of the room.

Harry stretches out a hand and carefully touches it to the spot where the magic doesn't quite meet. If a sword with his magic can aid the destruction of the cup, why couldn't it do the same with the locket? The memory of the cup exploding replays in his head, and he’s certain he can do this. His magic is brimming close to the surface, just waiting to be used and unleashed. He allows a small spark to transfer from his finger to the weak spot; it lands in the middle, pushing back the black miasma that creeps around the edge. There's a painful sounding whine, and the barest of shivers from the locket, its power wavering just a little. It's enough to get his hopes up though, encourage him to do more.

Harry doesn't dare breathe as he allows more of his magic to stream from his fingertip to the locket, making it pour out and push away the bit of soul trapped inside, slowly tearing it apart from the inside. The locket shrieks and shudders; gradually, the black cloud that has been hanging over Harry's head shrinks, returning to the locket or dispersing as its source is destroyed. Harry fights against the black spots that rise in his vision, his scar aching with a searing pain until all that's left of Voldemort's soul in the locket has been driven back, torn apart by magic until none is left.

There's a shuffle of footsteps and Harry sees the sword stab into one side of the locket from the corner of his eye. He looks up from where he kneels, face to face with the brilliant blue that has helped him in more ways than he can count. He grins weakly at Draco. "That's done then, right?"

"Right," Draco says, his voice hoarse and dry. "On our end, at least. You know you're mental, right?"

Harry pushes his hair out of his face. "Maybe a bit," he admits. He frowns and shakes his head. "We need to see if Hermione and Ron have found the other Horcrux, make sure they’ve gotten the chance to destroy it." He’s pretty sure they must have, though, remembers that feeling in Dumbledore’s office.

Harry scoops the broken locket together and shoves it into a pocket. Even destroyed, he's not going to trust it enough to leave it behind. Draco shoves the twisted remains of the cup into his pocket and pulls him up, catching Harry before he falls over. His head is spinning and he’s not used to expelling so much magic at once. Draco maintains a tight grip on his waist as he leads Harry back through the room and towards the door.

As astounding as this room is, Harry doesn't think he has any plans to come back to it at anytime. There wouldn't be any need for him to use it, and all it has are memories of things he should have left behind long ago. He'll keep them there, in the room of forgotten things, best kept hidden.

It's like a breath of fresh air, coming out into the corridor. The magic is a little more alive, more in contact with the rest of the school, the air not as stale. All he wants to do is take some sort of medicine to relieve himself of the insistent pounding in his head, and sleep.

There's a shout behind them before they can get too far. "Just the people we were looking for!"

Draco turns them, and Harry recognises the colourful bundle of Hermione's magic. He's drawn into a hug from her before he can get a proper look at her companions, where she clings to him tightly and leaves him breathless.

“Thank goodness you two are all right! We hadn’t heard any news and could only imagine the worst!”

"Did you get it?" Harry asks, trying to gently pry Hermione’s arms from around his neck. “Were you able to find it?” He thinks he knows the answer, but he has to be sure.

"'Course we did," Ron says, and Harry can tell he's grinning and smug beneath a layer of tiredness. "Destroyed the diadem, the dagger that did the deed, and most likely the room we did it in is going to be rendered useless."

“So that’s it then, right?” Hermione asks, excited and nervous and full of energy. “This is the end? Voldemort can be killed now. He's started already, if his announcement is anything to go by. It's time for this to be over."

Harry couldn't agree more. He can't imagine what it's been like for these people, to have to live in the war for so long with little hope, but with such determination to see it through. He can't help but admire their bravery and strength.

"Where are we off to then?" Sirius asks, sounding a bit grim.

"Field on the other side of the Forest, apparently," Draco answers. Before he can say another word, Sirius reaches over and grips Harry's shoulder tightly, draws him a little ways away from the others.

“Take care of yourself, you hear me?” he says, leaning in close so that only Harry hears him. “If I could, I’d make it so that you wouldn’t have to be in the thick of things. But you’re more like your parents than you think; standing idly by is not something you’d take well to.”

Harry can’t resist smiling at him. “Doesn’t seem as if it’s your thing either.”

“And a good thing, too,” Sirius shoots back.

The halls are eerily empty, their footsteps ringing of the flagstones and echoing around them in a cacophony of sound. The magic is a different story, though, glimmering and bristling, as if it’s trying to fight of the siege it feels happening just off it’s grounds. The strength behind it makes Harry feel even just a little bit better.

“You look like you’re about to fall over,” Draco says to him as they make their way through the castle. The closer they get to the castle doors, Harry is able to make out the clash of magic, the battle so large he's able to feel it from far away. His nerves twist and he’s thankful that they haven’t had a chance to eat lately.

“There’s no point in stopping now,” Harry says. “It would only prolong this.” Harry knows that Draco wants this over as much as everyone else does, that he has lost just as much, if not more, to this war.

Draco is clearly not very happy with the point Harry’s made, but his not putting up too much of a fight is a clear sign of how tired he is as well, how he knows that it’s a now or never deal.

The castle is quiet, the students tucked away. Harry can see the heavy wards in place, keeping any with malicious intent away. The castle is completely cut off, and Harry knows that once they leave it, they won’t be getting back in easily.

The castle doors sigh behind them as Draco leads Harry down the stairs and out onto the grounds. “The Forest,” Draco whispers into his ear, “is filled with many things. I don’t know how we’re supposed to get through it without encountering one thing or another, but there’s a chance that the battle on the other side is warning them away. Hopefully we’ll have a clear path.”

Harry nods, but he can’t be concerned with anything that may or may not be in the Forest. He can see creatures peering at them through the trees, and that’s enough for him.

There’s magic in the Forest; Harry sees it, twining with the trees with all combinations of colours and holding both promises and threats. It doesn't seem as if it is anything that’s going to actively harm them, attack them with no warning, for which Harry is thankful. They have enough to deal with.

As they approach the battle site, they decide to split up and approach from opposite ends, so as to cover more ground and have a better chance at taking some unawares.

Harry’s not sure if it’s just that the screaming hasn’t started yet, or if it’s just being overpowered by the sound of magic in his ears, the crackle of its energy and the sounds of spells being cast. Either way, there’s a pit of dread in his stomach, and he wishes that this was already over with. And really, the fact that he’s expecting _screaming_ doesn’t ease his worries at all.

Draco’s hand catches him on the chest, forcing him to stop. Harry peers around Draco’s shoulder and sees the flash and whirls of magic swirling through the air. If he hadn’t seen Hogwarts and got at least a little used to the levels of magic there, he’d be at a complete loss here. As it is, he finds it a little difficult to separate the wizards from magic and the individual spells being thrown through the air. There are patches of magic that don’t look right, disproportioned and much too large or distorted to belong to a wizard.

“What are those?” he asks Draco, gesturing to a large patch of magic that lumbers across their vision.

“Giants,” Draco explains. “He’s got an entire army, not just wizards, to come here by either offering power or food, or through the use of threats. He’s had a while to build it, and we’ve not had much luck in countering his efforts. We have centaurs, of course, and thestrals. But their natural invisibility doesn’t do much good in a battle where nearly everyone has killed or seen death.”

Harry watches as the opposite side of the field bursts into flame, how the air feels cold when he tries to breathe. Thrown into the thick of things like this, he’s disorientated and frightened. He doesn’t know even half of the creatures Draco has named, but from the sounds of the battle and what he’s observing, he’s thankful he doesn’t know much about them. Though, the lack of knowledge could prove to be his downfall.

They spend a moment standing on the edge of the tree line, observing the battle with increasing dread before making their move. Draco pulls him further along the edge of the forest until they reach a part where the battle isn’t as thick.

“Here,” Draco says and casts a spell with a whispered word. Harry sees a thin film of light spread out in the air in front of them and enclose them inside. He squints at it, noting the flexible nature of it and the almost gauzy appearance.

Harry recognises it from the time they snuck out to fly. Curiously, he stretches out a hand to touch the tips of his fingers to it. They pass right through. “So we’re going to crouch here and catch people unaware?” Harry asks.

Draco doesn’t even hesitate before he explains. “It’s safer this way. And honestly, they would do the same, if not have a worse tactic in mind.”

Harry swallows and says, “Right.” His grip on his wand is sweaty, so he shifts it to his other hand and wipes his palm on the material of his robes. Beside him, Draco is already sending out a few spells, Disarming and Stunning those with their backs to him, crippling creatures left and right and unleashing tongues of flame with precision.

Harry’s more concerned about the fact that he has a very good chance of hitting the wrong people, catching one of their own members instead. So he aims for those with magic he’s unfamiliar with, ones whose magic is corrupted or holds a form of taint not unlike the kind Harry remembers seeing in people like Voldemort or from when they were captives. He tries to counter the natural magic of the other beings, not knowing what else to do against them.

As with anything else the two of them have done together, they make an excellent team, each taking a different side of the field without talking. Draco is of course a bit faster with his spell work than Harry, though Harry’s find their marks more often. Every so often, Harry spots a spell making its way towards them, either purposefully or having missed the person intended for it. It shatters like a Muggle firework upon contact with Draco’s shield, forcing Harry to blink in order to clear his vision.

It’s a horrible thing he’s witnessing. A level of violence, combined with hatred both genuine and conditioned from being on opposing sides. And all stemmed from differing viewpoints and methods. What he hates most is that he’s a part of it, drawn into it.

There are several instances where someone or something will come to them, bringing the smell of decay and blood, or a piercing coldness. Draco’s wand work comes into play at these times, driving them back and away. There is the odd attacker who manages to evade the spells, getting close enough to touch the shield. When that happens, they are thrown away, propelled back through trees and vines and into the thick of the battle, where they are trampled more often than not.

Harry knows when the battle has changed. The air feels a little heavier, the focus drawn more of one way as various opponents break away from each other, some running into the cover of the Forest. Arching his neck, Harry’s not able to see any sort of indication of what exactly it was that happened. The flash of magic is the same as it always was, the yowling and screams, but any exclamations are louder. It’s not until that voice rings through to where they huddle in the Forest that Harry realises what must have happened.

“You are all fools, fighting here at the single command of Dumbledore, who is not even present and allows you to fight here without aid. You, Dumbledore, are insensible. And you are a coward, Harry Potter. You’ve hidden from me for far too long, and you insist on doing it now. How pathetic of you. I invite either one of you to step forward, but I am more than happy to settle for decimating your forces.” It’s emphasized by a loud bang, and the field cracks down the middle, swallowing those not fast enough to get out of its way, wizards and creatures alike.

Harry stands from his crouch, staggering a little from being in the position for so long. He has to give Voldemort the credit that he knows how to get to people; preying on Harry’s hatred of violence, and of having people die for him. He’s already fed up enough from the battle; Sirius was right before about Harry not wanting to be useless.

Draco catches him before he’s able to burst through the magical web of the shield. “Don’t you dare take his bait,” Draco snarls at him, pulling him further into the cover of the woods. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not going to stand by idly while you die, not like I did with my father.” His voice shakes from anger, and there’s a waver of fear.

“Who says I’m going to die?” Harry shoots back at him. Draco’s hand is wrapped tightly around his upper arm, hard and firm, and Harry knows he’ll never be able to pull out of it. And even if he could, there would be no outrunning Draco, not when it’s hard to make out anything in his path through blasts of magic and energy, colours so vivid they run into each other. “It doesn’t change the fact that it comes down to me or him.”

Draco’s grip on him tightens. He looks as if he’s at war with himself, his magic swirling and chaotic and of course he looks like he wants to warn Harry, tell him too many different things that he doesn’t even know where to start. But Harry’s determined, just as much as Draco is, too ready for this and far too prepared mentally for his mind to be changed. He may despise the conclusion he’s come to, but there’s no changing it now, not when he knows he can do something.

“You know something,” Draco says, and it’s as if the battle ceases to exist and is only a small drone of sound outside their bubble of a shield, curses and jeers and cruel laughter. His entire attention is focused on Harry. “It’s bigger than the ‘you and him’ part. You’ve known it for a while. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Of course I knew,” Harry says. “It was one of the things Dumbledore mentioned the first time we talked. It would always boil down to the two of us, no matter what. As things went on, it was easy enough to figure out that something wasn’t quite right.” He looks off to the side, away from Draco and away from the battle. “I realised it when we began hunting for Horcruxes. I – there’s… Draco,” he says, and he looks back to see that Draco’s magic is twisted between anger and fear and grief, and Harry only continues because he knows he owes Draco the explanation and because he’s already put it off for so long.

“When we started getting the Horcruxes, I felt it – or realised what it was.” He raises his free hand and delicately touches his scar. Harry senses Draco’s confusion and has to force himself to continue. “There’s a connection, a reason why I could feel them. There’s a bit of his soul in me too, or so I’m guessing.”

“You’re _guessing_?” Draco asks, his voice rough. “No, absolutely not. I’m not letting you do anything on a _guess_.”

“Fine, it’s not a guess,” Harry corrects. “It’s not something I’d be able to miss. Look, Draco,” Harry tries to recapture his attention, as he can tell that Draco is drawing away from him, “I can’t see my own magic. But I can see something, and always have been able to. It wasn’t until we got to the locket that I realised what it was. It’s the same kind of magic.”

He hears Draco swallow. “Why hadn’t you told me anything?”

“That was a mistake on my part,” Harry admits. “And after….” Harry trails off, because he knows that Draco is making all the connections for himself; the reasons why Harry pushed him away, in a vain effort to protect him for when Harry needed to do this. The grip on Harry’s arm loosens, and Harry reaches for where Draco’s other hand hangs limply and squeezes it, feeling the magic burning beneath Draco’s skin.

“There’s a way to force a Horcrux from its casing,” Draco says. “There must be.”

“Maybe in a different case. But I’m human. How would that work? Wouldn’t the original shell be damaged in the process? It’s complex magic, and far too dark.”

“There’s always a way with magic.” Draco is adamant, and Harry has to close his eyes. “Don’t you dare tell me you’ve given up.”

Harry refrains from saying _Fine, I won’t_ , but he thinks Draco knows that he’s thinking it.

“You’re an idiot, Potter,” Draco mutters, but his tone is soft, not harsh and biting. Harry grins at him, but it fades when he takes a good look at Draco. Draco pulls him forward until Harry is pressed to his chest, and the only thing he hears is the beat of Draco’s heart. His breath whooshes from his lungs and his arms wrap around Draco, not only in an effort to keep himself steady, but also because there’s no way he could prevent himself from returning the embrace.

He feels the point of Draco’s chin resting on the crown of his head, and is forcibly brought back to the time when he had kissed that spot; it seems so long ago. “This can’t go on for much longer,” he says, but even he’s not so sure about what it is he’s talking about.

"You think it's easy?" Draco mutters against the shell of Harry's ear, and Harry shivers. "It's not. It's all too much, too soon."

"I know," Harry whispers back. He resists the urge to bury his face in Draco's neck, but he still feels the faint brush of Draco's hair next to his nose, its scent teasing him with memories of their night together. The contact isn’t sufficient, and Harry doesn't think he'd ever get enough of Draco, even if they had the time for it.

"You don't think you have a choice," Draco says as he pulls away from Harry, just enough to see him. "There's one thing Granger seems to have overlooked in her lessons to you, and one thing that I thought you would have known anyway: Magic isn't black and white. One way or another, there's always a counter curse of some sort, some way of getting around something."

"But we don't have the time," Harry tells him. “Even if we did, removing a Horcrux from the casing would probably be hazardous to the caster. And where would the bit of soul go? Probably into the person taking it out! It’s a lose-lose situation.” As he says this, the sounds of battle are made known to him again and he feels the ground beneath his feet shake with explosions and the sounds of conflicting spells. His ears throb, his head aches from the pull of power. He sees the shimmer of magic from the battle, and that of the Forest interacting with the bright blue of Draco’s magic.

Gently, he pushes away from Draco, pressing his palms flat to Draco's chest, and tries to ignore the feeling of loneliness that rises up. Over the crackle of magic, he can hear Voldemort's cackle, and more prevalent over that, Bellatrix’s own laughter. It feels as if the magic that's around him is melding with his own, even if he can't see it. Draco lets him go, his hand falling away slowly, but Harry can tell he knows, that he understands on some level that nothing he says will change anything.

The laughter is what brings him near, what seems to be calling him forwards. He skirts the battle as best he can, climbing his way towards the opposite side of the hill to where he feels Voldemort, secluded and watching. He knows Draco is following behind him, deflecting spells and sending his own magic to dance with the network of lights that Harry sees. He feels Draco's magic behind him like the call of a siren, but there's power in the movement of the magic before him as well, nearly as strong. With shaking fingers, he fingers his wand where it weighs heavily in his palm, the wood warm and smooth.

He's close now, he knows, because there is something – the Horcrux inside him – that recognizes the proximity of its originator. There's no chance that he'd ever forget what it was like to be close to this wizard.

The magic thrums around him, and he pushes away that which he does not need. He knows when Voldemort sees his approach, sees the black miasma of his magic, nearly non-existent and broken as it reacts to Harry's appearance. He raises his wand and prepares to fight back and hears Voldemort's laughter ring clear through the air.

Before they’re able to do more than raise their wands, Voldemort’s attention is captured by someone else and it's clear the dark wizard cannot be more jubilant. He exclaims, “Finally you show your face, old man!” His focus switches to meet with that of Dumbledore's, and its crackle is the only thing Harry can hear, the only thing he's allowing himself to focus on. He’s completely forgotten.

"Tom," Dumbledore responds, and Harry's surprised he can hear what is being said over so much magic, over the screams of others that he shoves down until they are near silent in the back of his mind. "You've made many grave errors, but the greatest one is overlooking any possibility that you're quite capable of making them."

"On the contrary, Dumbledore," Voldemort's reply is louder, and carries through the sounds of battle, "I’m not one to make mistakes.”

There’s a change, and Harry feels Dumbledore’s magic focus more on him than the battle he’s fighting. He feels a small strand of it wrap around him and shakes he his head. There’s a thick knot of worry in Harry’s stomach and it makes him feel sick, his insides twisting because he knows that the outcome of this is not going to be one he’d choose.

There’s a slow build up, the air thickening and growing and becoming so heavy with the swirls of magic, Dumbledore’s taking in his opponents, the battle raging before him and another battle warring between Dumbledore’s magic and that of the magic in his scar and it’s hard for Harry to breathe. It erupts into a flash of light and everything seems to pause and Harry’s so deeply aware of everything around him; his skin tingles with each brush of air and magic that it feels like it’s on fire with pleasure and pain.

The world has paused and narrowed down to the two of them, down to the point where Harry doesn’t even respond to the constant brush of Draco’s magic behind him. The brilliant thread of light connects him to Dumbledore like a channel, and Harry feels the transfer of power, the taking that Dumbledore is doing. Panic floods him.

 _You should have more faith in Draco_. It’s said kindly, Dumbledore’s voice in his head as Harry looks at him. He is reminded that Dumbledore has been referred to as ‘crafty’, and feels extreme sorrow and a rush of gratitude to the older wizard.

The light brightens until nothing is visible between them, and Harry sees Dumbledore’s magic being replaced by that blot that he’s always seen in the mirror, that splotch that is not him, but is that part of Voldemort. It’s not a moment later when the green flare breaks though the black and sends shards of it over the battlefield, disappearing before they even hit the ground. He folds into himself, clutching at his middle and his head, the sounds of the battle and spellfire erased completely before they come back in a cacophony that sends him reeling and to his knees.

“Harry!” The exclamation in his ear and the arms around his shoulders are ignored, overpowered by what’s been ripped away from him and the overbearing sense of freedom that accompanies it.

He’s lost in this entire world of colour that surrounds him, some hissing and spitting and not so different from the crashing of waves on rock. He feels too light and free, and if he loses his focus for one instant, the rush of magic will sweep him away just as surely as the tide claims the shore.

Draco pulls him away from a jet of light, grunting in his ear as he does so and steadies Harry on his feet. “If you’re going to be so goddamn stubborn, you had better do something now!” he shouts in Harry’s ear, and it’s enough to clear his head.

The air when he inhales is rife with magic, choking and strengthening him at the same time. He coughs and sputters, narrowly avoiding the spells thrown their way. “Fine,” he says back, pushing away from Draco and making his way until he is on his own two feet and balanced. He spares a moment to look over at Draco, whose attention has shifted over to someone else.

“You take care of him for me, and I’ll deal with her,” Draco says and nods over to where Bellatrix is advancing on them.

Harry nods, trusting Draco and ready to take on this challenge for him. It’s fitting, he thinks, that they are both so ready to take down the person that has caused the other such grief.

Weaving in between the magic begins to be hypnotic, and even Voldemort’s jeers help him settle into a semblance of a rhythm. He’s predictable at best, Harry thinks, throwing his wand up and his magic out to fend off that of Voldemort’s.

There’s a dark green, almost black, tinge to Voldemort’s magic, like that of a coiling snake, and Harry feels a lump form in his throat. He has such a degree of magic and violence to him, so much hatred bottled up that it’s overwhelming. He's seized by doubt and the inexplicable notion that he _can't do this_ , not by himself. There's a flash and Harry stumbles off to the side, away from the smoking crack that appears in the ground where he had stood not moments before.

He can't find it in himself to care about what is going on around them. He knows that if he messes this up that it's all over. There are no second chances, and he can't begin to contemplate what it is Voldemort plans to do. In the back of his mind, he knows that there's every chance that Draco, for one, will not escape unharmed if Voldemort is victorious. Voldemort has no mercy, and Harry finds it hard to believe that he ever had.

It's that thought, Harry thinks, that gives him the presence of mind to fight back, regain his equilibrium. Voldemort's next spell meets in mid air with his, with a shower of sparks and a strength that forces Harry to take several steps back. He doesn't bother looking behind himself to secure his footing.

Voldemort is no longer laughing, and his magic hides nothing. Twisting and ugly, there and not there, and corrupted by the splitting and the choices that have brought him here. Magic is more of an insight to someone’s soul than is usually thought, and Harry is filled with a deep understanding of what it is Tom Riddle has done to get him to this point, a small surge of pity.

He deflects the next spell, the crackle loud in his ears and the light and mesh of colours illuminating his vision and overtaking it.

"It appears I have some credit to give you," Voldemort hisses, and he is closer than Harry remembers him being. Harry is sorely tempted to back up several paces and distance himself from this monster, but he doesn't think he has that sort of room behind him, and it's a very plain show of weakness. Any sign of weakness at this point could prove to be lethal. "After all," Voldemort continues, and Harry feels him lean closer, hears a curse and a threat and a scream, all rolled into one from so far away, "I know of your… _troubles_ , shall we say."

Harry feels a jolt of fear. "How did you–?"

He hears the ringing sound of Voldemort’s laughter that fills the space between them and it sets Harry's teeth on edge. "Oh, my dear Harry, how naïve of you. Of course I would know, how could you ever think I wouldn't?" He leans away, taking his suffocating magic with him, and Harry sucks in a well needed breath. "After all, we are connected, you and I, strung together by fate."

Harry is so tempted to correct him, say that they _were_ , and that that's what really matters, but he doesn't think there's any point in setting him to rights. It won’t be much longer now, anyway.

He doesn’t notice the spell until it catches him on the shoulder, burrowing past his clothes and meshing with his magic. He gasps and raises a hand to clutch at his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to be able to rip the spell away from him. He’s barely able to block the next one that is sent his way, and it grazes his arm in a hot streak of light. He hears a bang erupt behind him and feels the heat of it on his back.

This has already gone on far longer than it should have, Harry thinks, and tries to move away from where Voldemort is shadowing him. Voldemort keeps pace with him, though, as if whatever movement Harry makes is reflected in Voldemort. His left arm is sluggish and Harry doesn’t want to think about what would happen if the curse gets as far as his chest.

He feels sweat roll down from his temple, bead on his upper lip and slide down his back. Sometimes it’s hard to see if his magic meets with Voldemort’s or not, the only telling sign the crackle of their energy as they meet in the air.

Though the majority of those around them are fighting their own battles, some stand around to watch the play of power. Harry tries not to let the battles around him distract him, only glances at them enough to know that the Order members are giving as good as they’re getting. He manages to spot Hermione and Ron dart past before he loses them in the flare of spells.

The only battle he allows himself to pay attention to when he can is the one Draco’s taken up. Harry sees him deflecting spell after spell aimed at him from Bellatrix, and Harry’s stomach knots with each one.

He returns his complete focus on Voldemort, who appears to be standing aloofly, as if he knows he's guaranteed to win. Harry raises his wand and fires off a series of spells, driving Voldemort back and forcing him to react quickly, erasing that confidence. Harry feels the moment Voldemort’s self-assurance wears off, and he feels a burst of smugness. Just because he may not be able to see the same way Voldemort can doesn't mean he has no vision. What Tom Riddle may be painfully oblivious to, Harry is not. He can't help but dart a quick look over to where Draco is, seeking just a small bit of strength from the bright pulse of his magic, just to assure himself that he is alright.

The world narrows down to the four of them, and it's the only thing Harry can focus on. The jeers have stopped, and Harry knows that Tom is paying as much attention to this battle as he is. But Harry has something that he _knows_ Tom has never had: something to fight for.

Each of the spells thrown his way is avoided, though some still make their way through his defences. Voldemort isn't holding back, his spells coming faster and more dangerous, his anger nearly palpable. Harry manages to get a few of his own off in between dodging the spells he can't deflect. All the while, he's examining Tom, looking for a weakness or opening, somewhere he can manipulate his magic the same way he was able to with the locket. It gets easier the more careless Tom gets, throwing volley after volley of spells, steadily getting closer to Harry and making his stomach churn with his magic.

Harry manages to find it moments before Tom's latest spell hits home, sending Harry reeling back from the force of his spell until he’s laying sprawled on the grass and chest heaving from the impact. There's a scream, and he's only partially sure it came from him. He can feel tendrils of the magic curling over his skin, hot and angry and hungry and sending a wave of fear down his spine. It's chilling, compared to the magic from Voldemort’s spell interfering with his, the spell leeching off his own magic and sucking away his power, using it against him. Voldemort looks triumphant, and Harry thinks that _this_ is his opportunity to catch Voldemort off guard.

He sits up until he is only half laying on the ground, watches as Voldemort draws closer and never takes his eyes away from that singular spot, the spot where his magic has a gaping hole from being torn apart. The magic around it licks weakly at the spot, but it can’t quite fix it. In all, Tom’s magic is a thin layer, but it's exceptionally weak over his chest, as if there isn't anything there he remotely cares for.

"Long have I waited for this chance," Voldemort whispers to him, and there’s nothing that interferes with his voice, no sounds of battle. It’s eerily silent.

Harry feels the swirl of Voldemort’s magic, magic that shouldn't even exist. It grates over Harry's and he clenches his teeth.

"I'm sure you have," Harry says back. He's careful to keep his wand out of sight and takes careful aim, hoping that this will work. He focuses, ignores whatever is being said as a pre-victory speech, closes his eyes and sends out his magic.

It's not difficult to send it out, just like casting a spell, and penetrating past Tom's defences is almost too easy. It helps that he's so assured that nothing could go wrong, so confident that he's won that it eclipses any lingering doubts. With the light brush of Harry's magic against his, Voldemort wavers; his light flickers and he lowers himself to the ground. The murky light of his magic pulses angrily at Harry.

"Impossible," Tom whispers, so quietly Harry hardly hears it over the rush of blood in his ears. His hand scrabbles across the distance between them and latches onto Harry's throat. Harry pushes away automatically, with both his magic and physically, pulling at Tom's hand to get him to loosen his grip. It only tightens as Harry tries to push apart the weak links in Voldemort magic, so easy as it's so fragile and unstable. Splitting one's soul in order to make him invincible has only made him weaker in the end.

Voldemort’s magic breaks apart just as black spots begin to overtake Harry's vision. There's a heart-wrenching cry, the hand around his throat loosens and goes slack and the magic once contained in Voldemort’s body bursts out and dissipates. The air that Harry gulps down holds none of the taint of Voldemort's magic; the acrid taste that lingers in the back of his throat slowly ebbs away.

Harry twists away, scooting further away from the crumpled form of Voldemort’s body and cutting his palms on whatever rocks litter the ground. He’s shaking and sweaty, his head pounding and whatever vision he clings to is wavering at best. He feels as if he’s underwater.

Noise overwhelms him, both victory and shouts of denial and cracks of Apparition. Harry twists and searches for the bright silvery blue spark of Draco’s magic, relieved when he finds it not so far away from him.

Nothing is over, though. Just because their leader is gone doesn’t mean that everything comes to a sudden halt. The sound is unintelligible, but there’s no doubt that it has come from Bellatrix.

Harry just happens to catch the sight of a sickly green spell hurling through the air towards Draco, whose back is turned. Her spell work is just as quick as it’s always been, sending several spells off in various directions. He flashes back abruptly to the time in the street, watching as a very similar light took away someone else very dear to him. He's not going to let the same thing happen again, and it gives him the last bit of strength, the compulsion to do what he wasn’t able to do before.

His spell flies from his wand like an arrow, intercepting the green light mid-flight. It hovers in the air for a moment, curling in on itself before it sets back off to where it came from. Bellatrix is gone before it can make contact, and Harry wants nothing more than to stand and hunt her down for getting away _again_.

His limbs feel like jelly, though, and it’s only when Draco reaches him that he’s able to stand with his support. Though being carried hardly counts as standing. “Harry, you daft fool!” he says, but it’s said with more affection than scorn. Harry can’t find it in himself to care anyways, too busy with the kiss Draco’s pulled him into, his hands cupping Harry’s jaw and preventing him from pulling away. Not that Harry would want to.

It’s easy to melt into Draco’s embrace, sighing as he does so. “You ’kay?” he asks against Draco’s lips when he’s able to. He feels the vibrations of Draco’s laughter, full, pained and vibrant, so many emotions mixed into one.

“Very much so.” He loops his arms around Harry’s waist and pulls him up, Harry clinging close to him and seeking solace. “Many, _many_ thanks to you. Idiot,” he says again as if it needs to be reinforced.

“Good,” Harry says. Assured, he allows himself to give into the blackness that has been beckoning him for so long.

* * *

Draco has a bit of a hard time with the aftermath of the battle. There are the celebrations, everyone finding someone to see that they are okay. There are the funerals, mourning those lost and all the war has cost. He’s not sure where he fits.

He sees the Order band together, walking through the crowd filling the Hall and approaching groups of people, a few members short from what they had started the battle with. A quick glance around the Great Hall is enough. He sees Granger and Weasley sitting together with the rest of the Weasley family, all looking worse for wear. Snape limps a little as he walks over to where Sirius sits at the end of a table to place a steaming mug before him. It’s not exactly a smile that Sirius gives, but it’s close. The spot to his right is conspicuously empty, until Snape eases himself down beside him.

Harry’s surprisingly sneaky, Draco thinks. He has no idea where Harry’s disappeared to, or how he manages to evade people when he wants to. Madam Pomfrey had been furious at the disappearance of one of her patients, especially from right under her nose. She had turned her back for a _second_ , she says, and he was gone. A second was apparently all Harry needed for escape. And after being there for several days, Harry really can’t be blamed for trying to get away.

And after being cooped up for so long, Draco has a feeling he knows where Harry will be. Nevertheless, it’s a relief when he finds Harry standing at the edge of the lake, looking out over the water and standing close enough to the edge that the water laps at his trainers. Draco approaches, the grass crunching under his feet as he comes to a stop beside Harry.

Draco doesn’t offer any greetings, but Harry knows it’s him anyway. “What do you think happens now?” he asks when Draco comes to stand beside him.

“I don’t know,” Draco says. “Perhaps whatever we want to happen.”

Harry nods, watching as a pair of owls fly out from the Owlery and over the Forest. “That would be nice,” he says. “To have the choice and the ability to do that.”

“I think I’m going to look for my mother,” Draco says, looking out over the lake. “My father said that she was out of the country for her safety. It can’t be too hard to find her.” He hesitates for a moment, then asks, “Come with me?” He looks over at Harry, who nods and grins.

“Of course,” he says. Grasping Draco’s hand, he turns on his heel as they begin the walk away from the lake and the castle towards the gates. The first step onto the path leading outside the school heralds their Apparition, which isn’t heard due to distance, nor over the celebration that still goes on in the castle.

He’ll send an owl to Pomfrey later.


	7. New Beginnings

The pressure from the shower is the most heavenly thing, Draco's decided, leaning against the slick tiles as the water pounds onto his back. It wears away the build-up of aches and pains that have accumulated over the course of their journey. 

They're now in the northern part of Spain, Zaragoza to be precise, having found no leads at all on the whereabouts of Narcissa in either France or Italy, or anywhere else they’ve gone, to tell the truth. Draco's weary of false trails; it seems like that's been all they've been following. 

With a sigh, he shuts the water off and steps out of the shower, Summoning a towel and wrapping it around his hips. The room is filled with steam, the air holding a slight jasmine scent from the bath products. He inhales it greedily before opening the door and exiting in a cloud of steam.

They were lucky with the hotel; it holds a great view of the river, and Draco had managed to persuade the teller to give them a discounted price. He hadn't told Harry that part, though, as he doesn’t think Harry would approve.

Entering the main room, Draco sees Harry standing outside on the balcony through the glass door. He is leaning on the railing, looking down over the city and the river, the rising sun giving his hair a soft glow. Draco takes a moment to appreciate the fact that Harry had come with him, that he has been here for when Draco needed him.

Draco approaches soundlessly, leaving the door open in favour of wrapping his arms around Harry's middle, resting his chin on a shoulder. Harry turns his head a little, just enough so that their cheeks touch.

"Thank you for coming with me," Draco says. His breath makes a stubborn strand of Harry's hair dance before it falls back into place. He knows he's said it before, knows what Harry's response is every time he says it. But he doesn't think that he's fully expressed how truly thankful he is that Harry has joined him. 

As expected, Harry takes his hands off the railing and places them on where Draco's are laced together on his stomach. "You wouldn't be able to get rid of me if you tried. 'Sides," he continues, and Draco perks up; this is new. "I don't think I could have stayed there for too long after everything. It's a bit... much."

Draco chuckles, and pulls away until he's leaning back against the railing, facing Harry. "That's putting it lightly."

Once it had come out that Harry Potter, long lost hero extraordinaire, had returned and that the Second Wizarding War was finally over... well, the press had gone completely mental. Draco thinks they must have published at least four different papers the first day alone. It wasn't much better when they had left, a mere two weeks after the battle, just enough time to see that everyone was healed properly and put to rights, for wizarding society to get back onto its feet. 

"You'd better get used to it," Draco had teased him. 

As it was, Draco is quite pleased they were out of the country for awhile too. Not only was he able to spend however much time he wanted with Harry – a lot – but he was also able to be at ease and relax fully for what felt like the first time in far too long. 

There was only one problem.

Despite all the digging they had done, all the questions asked and trails followed, they always seemed to be late arriving to the spot where Narcissa had last been seen. It was like chasing smoke, Draco thought, constantly slipping away when you thought you had it. 

It was frustrating, Draco thought, and there were days where he didn't think they should continue. He'd gotten angry on far more than one account, ranting about it to Harry, on far too many occasions in Draco’s opinion.

"So, where are we off to today?" Harry asks, casting a sly look over at Draco. "We have a couple of days still left here."

Draco hums and says, “I may have made a reservation at _Casa y Tinelo_.”

Harry grins at him, shakes his head, and leans over to press a kiss to the corner of Draco’s mouth. Draco’s having none of that, though. His hand comes out to grab a fistful of Harry’s hair, pulling him into a proper kiss and tugging on the strands the right amount to angle Harry’s head and make him gasp with pleasure. 

Draco could easily spend hours snogging Harry; the give and take, the playful nips and caresses and teases. The way Harry’s tongue feels like it’s mapping the inside of Draco’s mouth, the little puffs of air exchanged between them and the ones Draco feels lightly ghosting over his cheek. It’s addicting. 

Draco’s towel is in danger of falling off, but he can’t find it in himself to care. Harry’s hand is on his chest, resting _so very close_ to his nipple and if he shifts just a little bit –

“I think we’d better get inside,” Harry says breathlessly as he tears his mouth away from Draco’s. Draco nods and allows himself to be drawn back into the room, shutting the balcony door behind him with his foot. 

His towel is gone as soon as the door clicks shut, his fingers already pulling at the ties to the loose dressing gown Harry is wearing. “I had planned a small trip out for the afternoon,” he says. “We’ll be late for it.” But he ducks his head and begins to shower Harry’s nape with kisses, intermingling them with soft nips and sucks. 

“Then we’ll just have to be late,” Harry says as he shrugs out of the gown. 

Draco – who’s never late for anything if he can help it – finds he doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

 

_fin_


End file.
